


The Victim of Circumstance

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content, Slash sex, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-20
Updated: 2010-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-30 10:18:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10161005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: WIP. Post DH. Novel-length. Nineteen years is a long time. What happened between the end of the Battle of Hogwarts and Albus Severus Potter’s first day of school?





	1. A New Order

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

**THE VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCE**

**(())**

**Author’s Note:** Whilst this story will strictly follow the canon information (aside from the slash, of course) in all seven books and their two companion books; any information that J. K. Rowling may have given after the seventh book (like in interviews and such), is not necessarily going to be followed in my story. For example, the banishment of the Dementors. Just so you know.

This story will eventually be **slash**. You have been warned! Don’t give me reviews about how sordid I am. _If you don’t like it do not read it._ It is also **Post Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows** , which I am assuming ended in approximately June, 1998.

**Disclaimer:** J. K. Rowling owns most of the characters and places in this fan fiction. I am not fiscally profiting from this at all and I have no money, so don’t bother suing me.

  
**(())**

_“The test of courage comes when we are in the minority. The test of tolerance comes when we are in the majority.” – Ralph W. Sockman_

Chapter One: A New Order

**42 days after the Battle of Hogwarts**   


“The time is 9:30AM, Monday the 25th of July, 1998.” The courtroom fell silent as Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, addressed his peers on the Wizengamot and the various other wizards and witches present.

The murky, hoary room was surrounded by Aurors stationed at strategic points, their wands at the ready and their black uniforms looking crisp and clean. There were two Dementors that stood guard at the double oak doors, keeping obediently still. Shacklebolt’s Patronus, a lynx, stalked up and down the black wood floors, holding the Dementor’s misery back. 

To the immediate right of Shacklebolt, a quill began scribbling quickly, copying down every spoken word.

“The Wizengamot Hearing into the offences committed under the Decree for Excessive Magical Force, the Muggle Protection Act of 1992, the Decree for Human Rights, the use of the Unforgivable Curses Act of 1813, the Murder by Magic Act of 1654, and the Servitudes of Dark Wizards Act of 1981, will commence.” 

All eyes fell on the young man trapped in the chair in the centre of the room, his hands, legs, arms and neck bound to the seat by chains. He was disturbing to look at, with his pale as porcelain skin that had a translucent, grey tinge to it. He seemed dangerously thin and brittle and there was a look in his eyes … a haunted look that said he had seen too much for one so young. 

“Wizengamot interrogators are,” continued Shacklebolt in his deep, calm voice, “Kingsley Armand Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic, Hestia Abidora Jones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Percy Ignatius Weasley, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, Hermione Jean Granger, Junior Undersecretary to the Minister, Arthur Hugo Weasley, Head of the Muggle Liaison Office, Professor Minerva Ophelia McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Dedalus Derryn Diggle, Order of the Phoenix Representative, Elizabeth Yolanda Croaker, Head of the Department of Mysteries, Tabitha Lilith Ngyuen, Head of the International Cooperation Office-”

The list continued and the courtroom remained silent, but for the scratching of journalist quills in the right hand corner, and Shacklebolt’s magical scribe. Everyone’s gaze remained on the young man in the chair, who was determinedly looking ahead, gazing at apparently nothing, not having moved an inch since his arrival.

“The accused, one Draco Abraxas Malfoy, eighteen-years-old, is present and stands on trial for the aforementioned charges.” Shacklebolt looked up at the young man; no feeling in particular present in Shacklebolt’s composed face. He was turning out to be the best thing that had happened to the Ministry in a long time. And with all the reforms that had been taking place, all the weeding out of the corrupt that he had been instigating, it was hard to imagine that the man had had enough sleep to be conducting all these trials.

“Mr. Malfoy, you may plead not guilty to all charges, guilty to all charges, or you may specifically state which charges you do and do not plead guilty too. What say you?”

Finally, there was movement from the prisoner, followed by a deep intake of breath – a difficult feat with the chain so secure around his neck. Draco Malfoy looked rather weak and anxious, and when he spoke it was with a slightly croaky voice. Like he had not used it for a while. “Guilty to all charges but Murder by Magic.” And then in a quieter voice, “I never killed anyone.”

“ _We_ will determine that,” came the voice of Percy Weasley, the contempt evident. It was no secret that the Weasley family had lost their son, Frederick, in the war. Each member of the family was managing the loss in their own way. Percy Weasley’s was to immerse himself in his work.

“Do you have a defense, Mr. Malfoy, for your atrocious crimes?” Percy Weasley’s father asked in a grave tone. Arthur Weasley handled the death of his son quite differently. It appeared that the man was determined to see that no other person, good or bad, ever had to feel the great loss he was feeling. That no father ever have to look at their son with the life gone out of their eyes.

The prisoner struggled to keep his face impassive at the words of Mr. Weasley. He appeared in deep thought, as if wanting to perfectly choose the phrasing of his next sentence. “Self-preservation,” he finally answered, carefully and truthfully. “The Dark Lord would have killed me and my family if I had not cooperated. I had no choice.”

“You had a choice,” came the bitter voice of Elizabeth Croaker. “Everyone in this room had a choice. And we have each suffered for ours, but we come out of it with clear consciences. A sentence in Azkaban may have to be your payment for your cowardice.” 

A tetchy throat was cleared meaningfully. It may have been Minerva McGonagall’s. Croaker ignored it.

“You made the wrong choice. Besides which, new laws state the only witnesses that are allowed to present themselves to the Wizengamot are non-accused. As a result, you have no proof that you did not act on your own volition. You have no proof that the He Who Must Not Be Named forced you to do anything. And there are several, credible sources that put you at various crime scenes, including the murder of Albus Dumbledore.” It was a good thing that the prisoner was not looking at Elizabeth Croaker. He would not have liked her unforgiving countenance. “So Mr. Malfoy, how is it that you plan on defending yourself for these crimes?”

The prisoner appeared visibly distressed by this speech. It was not surprising that his inability to procure a witness should concern him. Without one, it was unlikely that he could convince the Wizengamot that he had not been a completely willing participant in the war. There where only two people who could, and were disposed to confirm his story. His parents. Unfortunately for him, both had already been tried and convicted. Narcissa was handed a ten year sentence in the medium security floor of Azkaban. Surprisingly lenient, the public had thought. Lucius had not been so lucky. He barely escaped the Kiss. He was saved, miraculously, by one Wizengamot vote – Arthur Weasley’s. 

Seven others had been even less fortunate. Twelve Death Eaters, and other servants of the Dark Lord’s, had faced the Wizengamot before Draco Malfoy. The New Ministry Order was being rigid and ruthless. They were determined to still any uprising that may come from the surviving Death Eaters, and were determined to discourage others to imitate the actions of them.

“He has a witness.” It was Hermione Granger. Even though half the pre-war Ministry workers had been fired, murdered or imprisoned, many people still had found it hard to believe that she had been given such a high position without even having her N. E. W. T’s. But then, what most didn’t know was, the only person alive who knew more details about Voldemort’s activities in the last four years, was Harry Potter himself. Hermione Granger would be more likely to catch a Death Eater in a lie than any other on the Wizengamot. “The witness waits in the side chamber.” 

There was a sudden rumble in the crowd and the prisoner curiously attempted to turn his head to the witness chamber door, but the chain around his neck held him tightly in place. The journalists became very animated in their corner. No other accused, thus far, had produced a witness that could come to their defense. Plenty could be found to incriminate them further, but none to absolve. 

The only other way to prove innocence in a Wizengamot trial was through the extraction of memories. But when in desperate need, a wizard could manipulate a memory, and as these trials were so vital to the security of the magical world, the Wizengamot would not accept the memories of accused persons as evidence. 

“Very well,” said Shacklebolt in his calm, low voice. “Call him in.” 

The Auror by the witness box turned on his heel and opened the door. Harry Potter stepped out and the crowd virtually roared in shock. Potter ignored it and made his way to the witnesses’ box; sitting himself deftly down, his eyes not even skimming over the man he was attempting to save. 

Everyone’s focus had shifted from the prisoner to the witness. If they had still been watching they may have seen the sudden relief that had flooded Draco Malfoy’s face. Hardly unexpected, when you considered the likelihood of sustaining a severe convicting sentence with the saviour of the wizarding world coming to your aid. 

“Silence!” boomed Shacklebolt, and the roar dimmed to murmurs. But this still was not good enough. “Those who cannot keep silent will be removed from the courtroom.” The Aurors around the room stirred threateningly and the crowd fell silent again, but their faces were still ablaze with excitement.

Harry Potter had not been seen by the public since that night at Hogwarts, when it had all finally ended. Some believed that he was staying away from the wizarding world, until the New Order had gained full control. Others believed that he had renounced magic altogether and was going in to hiding. Draco Malfoy believed neither.

“Harry Potter,” began Shacklebolt, his voice low and calm again. “You have evidence to give the Wizengamot, in regards to the guilt of Draco Malfoy?”

“Yes, I do,” said Potter. The dim candlelight around the courtroom hid most of Potter’s form in shadow so it was difficult to make out his expression.

“Then you may begin.” 

Potter took a deep breath, still determinedly not looking at the prisoner, and began, “In 1996, Draco was recruited by Lord Voldemort-” there was a sharp, collective intake of breath “-in an act of punishment. Punishment for Lucius Malfoy’s indiscretions.” 

Malfoy scowled. The journalists – particularly a bottled blonde with a sharp, green Quick-Quotes Quill – enthusiastically jotted down Potter’s story.

“How Draco felt about his recruitment, I cannot be sure. But, as he was sixteen-years-old, I think it does not matter.”

“I think it does matter,” Hestia Jones spoke up quickly. “A sixteen-year-old may not be of age, but they are still socially and morally aware.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Arthur Weasley, listlessly shifting in his seat, an undeviating sadness in his eyes. “The war had only just started for everyone other than the Order of the Phoenix. I doubt the boy knew what he was getting himself into. He had only been a baby through the previous war.”

“Regardless,” Hestia Jones continued firmly, “he appears to willingly have joined a group of notorious murderers.”

The conversation continued on this vein for some time, with the entire Wizengamot expressing differing views. Finally, as the conversation was beginning to become an argument, Hermione Granger spoke up again. 

“Why don’t we ask Malfoy?” A few of the Wizengamot glared disapprovingly at Granger, but she carried on undeterred. “Were you pleased to be recruited, Malfoy?”

It appeared that the prisoner did not appreciate being addressed by Granger. But he was not fool enough to degrade her. He answered quickly, “Yes. At the time I was pleased.”

“And were you fully aware of what it meant to be a Death Eater?”

He could be seen pondering this question for a moment, before answering. “No. I knew what would be required of me. But I didn’t understand how complicated it was.”

Granger raised her eyebrows imploringly at him, as if to say, “go on”. He frowned in thought. “I didn’t … I …” he said in a small voice. “I didn’t understand what death was.” 

A few significant looks were shared amongst the Wizengamot. Some of the faces were softening, ever so slightly.

“Well, then.” Granger spoke, matter-of-factly. “It has been determined that Draco Malfoy did not fully comprehend the consequences of becoming a Death Eater. Harry, continue if you will.” 

Potter seemed to be holding back a smirk, but he quickly hid it. “Thank you, Hermione,” he said, a slight trace of amusement in his voice. He cleared his throat. “Draco was given a mission,” he sobered swiftly as he continued, “to murder Albus Dumbledore. But Draco, despite being given the opportunity to complete his mission, did not do it.”

“Because Severus Snape beat him to it,” argued Croaker.

Potter’s face went very hard and many of the Wizengamot looked away, a certain amount of fear evident in their faces. Potter had just beaten the darkest wizard of all time, after all. Angering him would not be on a sensible person’s To Do List. “Severus Snape was a hero,” he said in a firm voice. “He and Dumbledore had an agreement. I have put forth all this, with evidence, to the Ministry.”

Croaker looked away. Granger sighed, impatiently. Evidently this was an on-going argument for Potter. “The Ministry has already accepted this evidence and Snape’s name-”

“ _Professor_ Snape.”

Granger puckered her brow and reluctantly corrected herself. “Professor Snape has been cleared. His reputation restored. Please continue, Harry.”

Potter still looked angry, but he trudged on. “I was there the night that Draco was meant to kill Dumbledore. I saw the whole thing. It is my belief, and I believe that it was Dumbledore’s belief, that Draco could not and would not kill him. In fact, I am certain of it. If the Wizengamot feels that I am being untruthful, I can provide the memory through use of a Pensieve or-”

“Oh really, Potter,” said Minerva McGonagall, almost affectionately. “Of course we believe you. But can you be certain that Malfoy did not kill any others? Dumbledore was his headmaster for six years. He made him a prefect. The boy may have had some kind of lukewarm feelings towards him. I doubt he would have felt the same about muggles or people he didn’t know.”

Potter considered this for a moment before shaking his head dismissively. “No. I do not believe that Draco killed anyone. I believe it was asked of him more than once, and that he did not comply.” 

“What reasons do you have, for thinking Malfoy innocent, other than your own belief, Harry?” Arthur Weasley asked, carefully.

Potter looked away in thought, his face grave. “A comment that Bellatrix Lestrange made … and the look on his face when Voldemort tried to make him torture Rowle. And probably Ollivander too.” The prisoner’s eyes had gone wide and the courtroom was deadly silent. Even the quills had stopped. Potter sighed. “I cannot know for certain, I suppose. Perhaps you should ask him. But I do not believe he killed anyone.”

“We already asked him,” said Croaker, a look of spite on her face. “He denied it.”

“Then we will vote.” Shacklebolt declared. “All those in favour of dismissing the charge of Murder by Magic, raise your hand.”

No one raised their hand and Draco Malfoy’s stomach began to fall. Then slowly, with a look on her face like she should know better, Granger raised her hand. Shacklebolt followed. Then McGonagall. Both Weasleys. And others too. It looked like it could be half. That’s all he needed. A majority. 

“It is agreed then, by a vote of 32 to 28. The charges of Murder by Magic are dismissed.”

The prisoner smiled. A real one that went all the way up to those grey eyes and it was directed at Potter. But the witness still did not meet Malfoy’s gaze. He continued to look at the Wizengamot coolly.

“Is there anything else you would like to add, Mr. Potter?” Shacklebolt asked.

Potter sighed. “Only that I do not believe that Draco wished death on anyone, once he fully understood what death meant. I believe that he is a victim of circumstance.”

“A victim of – oh, _honestly_ ,” Croaker sputtered, clearly unable to hold her disapproval in any longer. “ _You_ had half the wizarding world after you and _you_ still didn’t-”

“Whilst I’m sure,” interrupted McGonagall protectively, “that Potter greatly appreciates your praise. We cannot expect every child to be like him.”

“Very true,” said Weasley senior. “Harry was groomed for it. _Born_ for it. Many people did some suspect things in the war in order to survive. Not all of them are going to be on trial for it either, I might add. Malfoy was just a boy.”

“Well then,” said Shacklebolt, ending the matter as Croaker looked ready to throw dungbombs at people’s heads. “Mr. Potter, you are dismissed. The final pending charges on Mr. Malfoy will be decided after a short recess. Aurors, escort the prisoner back to the brig.”

Potter was on his feet and out the door, quick as a flash. The rest of the room began to disband quickly as Shacklebolt’s lynx had disappeared, leaving the Dementors undefended. But as the Aurors approached the prisoner, they could see that a whole lot of colour seemed to have rushed back to his cheeks and there was a definite look of relief. 

With Potter’s testimony and the removal of the Murder charges, he would not be sentenced with the Kiss. He might still receive life imprisonment. But at least he would still have his soul – a little deflated though it might be, it was not broken. And he liked it where it was.

**(())**

Potter’s words had apparently done the trick. Many of the Wizengamot that had previously been looking at Draco like he’d skinned their puppies and was wearing them as a coat, now had an obvious look of pity in their eyes. Which Draco would’ve hated if it wasn’t going to save his life.

It helped too, that Arthur Weasley continued to remind his peers that Draco had only been a boy when he was recruited. That McGonagall, who had taught him for several years, said loudly that she’d always thought Draco was a bully but never evil, also seemed to have an effect. And finally was Granger, who cinched it with the claim that without Draco, Potter would not have been able to defeat the Dark Lord. No matter how unaware Draco had been of this fact. 

Draco was thinking that he might get a shorter sentence than his mother, and be able to live as a twenty-something after all, when Ollivander was summoned to the witness chair.

Potter had not lied to the Wizengamot; Draco had not wanted to torture Ollivander. But Potter obviously did not know that he had done it anyway. And Ollivander, ever the speaker of truth, told the Wizengamot as much. 

Elizabeth Croaker had looked mightily pleased when Ollivander stated that Draco had been at it for minutes and Draco could see all Potter’s words being forgotten until Ollivander added;

“Good thing it did not hurt much.”

“What?” Croaker croaked. Draco thought she resembled a particularly ugly bullfrog. Like the ones that used to breed down by the creek at Malfoy Manor. Lucius had poisoned the creek to get rid of the disgusting beasts.

“It did not hurt much,” repeated Ollivander. “I was surprised too. His wand was just the right one for the Cruciatus. That hawthorn, yew.” Ollivander turned his inquisitive eyes to Draco. “I’m glad you did not mean it.” 

“What?” Croaker repeated. _Definitely a bullfrog._

“You have to mean it,” Granger said in exasperated tones and Draco was reminded of Potions classes. Only there was no Severus to beat her down anymore. “To successfully perform an effective unforgivable curse, you have to really, really mean it. Obviously Draco had no wish to torture Ollivander.”

“Though it does beg the question,” said Percy Weasley, pompously, “why Voldemort allowed Malfoy to perform the curse for so long if it had ‘not hurt that much’?”

“Oh now,” said Ollivander, his eyes shining. “I thrashed around and screamed appropriately. It was certainly a welcome break. Still, I was much happier when Harry Potter came and saved me with that clever muggleborn,” Ollivander glanced to Granger, “and your youngest boy,” Ollivander turned to Weasley senior. 

The courtroom all looked to Granger and Weasley too, as Ollivander turned back to Draco. “I must know, young master Malfoy, if Mr. Potter gave you back your wand? He repaired his old one you know, with the Elder Wand.” The journalists became very animated again. “He did not want the Elder Wand either. Though I must say, his original one, with that wonderful phoenix’s feather was one of my better designs. Still, it is curious, that he should choose it over the Elder.” 

Ollivander gazed at Draco expectantly until Granger finally intercepted. “Malfoy has no wand and shall not have any unless all charges are dropped.”

Ollivander frowned. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. But, should you ask him for it,” he continued, staring thoughtfully at Draco, “bare in mind that it will not work as well for you as it used to. He is the master of it now. You must get a new one from me as soon as you can.”

Someone snorted behind Draco and Shacklebolt shuffled his papers in finality. “Mr. Ollivander, thank you for your testimony. The Wizengamot will now adjourn to reach an agreed charge and sentence. Aurors, remove the prisoner.”

The Aurors came forward to detach Draco from the chair as the journalists and others left the courtroom. As the chains were released Draco immediately went to rub his sore neck but he was not given the opportunity as an Auror instantly put him in the full body bind and magicked thick coils around him. He was hovered out through the back door and down the stairs to the brig, one hundred feet below the courtroom.

This prison of cell blocks made from metals and magic was a holding area for those that still had their trials to come. This land of limbo between freedom and Azkaban was currently full and Dementors patrolled the brig in large numbers.

After the fall of the Dark Lord, the majority of the Dementors had all immediately returned to Azkaban, without any prompting from the Ministry. It was debated for several days about what should be done with them, but as there was no real way to destroy them, the Ministry decided to employ them for the time being. As there were more prisoners in the Ministry than Azkaban, at this stage, the Dementors presence was rather vast and foreboding. Steadily sucking the last vestiges of sanity from many of the inmates. 

Draco was unceremoniously thrown into his cell and was taken aback to see someone there waiting for him, lounging on his wire cot. The Auror that had bound him reversed his spells and slammed the door shut without comment. 

Harry Potter looked up at Draco for the first time in forty-two days. Draco stared back and saw a similar kind of haunted look in Potter’s eyes that had been reflecting back at him of late. But aside from this, Potter looked much the same as he had on the first day of school all those years ago. Though of course, he was taller and burlier and his jaw line had widened. And, though it was hard to tell in the dim light of his cell, Draco thought he saw the faint outline of facial hair emerging. Potter had obviously forgotten to shave in the last couple of days.

They sat in silence as Draco waited for him to speak. After a few seconds he realised he was not going to.

Draco cleared his throat as Dementors shifted outside his door, their rattling breaths thinning the air. Draco, having been in the brig for forty days now, hardly noticed the difference. His insides had been frozen for over a month. Potter however, did notice.

“Jesus,” he muttered. He pulled out his wand, which Draco noted was indeed his original one, and grunted, “Effin’ Dementors.” He waved his wand and a handsome stag erupted from it. The creature filled the room with warmth that Draco had never felt in that cell.

Draco tentatively sat down at the opposite end of the cot, now staring at the Patronus that was pawing the ground. 

“I suppose,” said Draco, after some time, his voice holding up well, “that I ought to thank you.”

“Yes,” said Potter in a small voice, running his hand through his jet black hair so that it stood up at awkward angles even more so than usual. “Yes, you probably should.”

Draco scrunched up his face, clearly not liking the idea. “Can we just pretend I did?” He muttered so quietly that he didn’t think that Potter had heard. A snort of derision told Draco otherwise though.

“I’m not here for gratitude,” said Potter. The stag walked over to Potter and lowered its magnificent head to his, nudging him with its silvery nose. “Hiya, Prongs.”

Draco watched this for a moment, fascinated. Draco had never been able to produce a corporeal Patronus. He felt that familiar twinge of jealousy that often came with being in the presence of Potter. “Prongs?” drawled Draco. “You named your Patronus?”

Potter turned to Draco, apparently pleased with the distraction. “Not exactly. My father was an Animagus, this was his form. His mates called him Prongs because of it.”

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes and said nothing to this. They sat in silence for awhile. Draco was considering asking him to leave but the presence of Prongs was a welcome break for him, and his head felt clearer than it had in weeks. He found himself longing for the voice of his father. And the scent of his mother. Finally, Draco was forced to say something.

“So if you’re not here for a thank you, why are you here?”

Potter sighed and sat up straighter, resigned to the end of the small talk. “Because I need to know something.” Potter looked across to Draco. “I need to know if you’re worth it.”

Draco stared back at him and blinked. Whatever it was the Draco had expected Potter to say, that wasn’t it. “I, um, I’m not sure how you expect me to respond to that, Potter.”

This answer, was evidently, not acceptable. “You could tell me that you _are_ worth it and that I did the right thing,” said Potter looking rather agitated. Draco sneered. _Really, he gives a bit of evidence and suddenly he’s my saviour?_

Potter saw the sneer and a rather nice one of his own began etching itself across his face. “You could tell me it was worth the two weeks of sucking up I did to Hermione,” he began, “so she wouldn’t bring up how many times you called her a Mudblood. Or the Buckbeak incident, or the Norbert incident, or the fact that you and Crabbe and Goyle tried to kill us in the Room of Requirement or the fact that you’ve never shown any remorse for any of these things.” 

Draco flinched at the mention of Crabbe and Potter stood up, pacing. Prongs looked at him thoughtfully.

“You could tell me it was worth the fifty hours of manual labour I spent working on Arthur’s new bloody car so he wouldn’t tell the Wizengamot about how your father had given his daughter a piece of Voldemort’s soul that sent her around the castle trying to kill everyone, and that my word that Lucius didn’t deserve the Kiss-” Potter paused to snort “-kept Arthur from voting for it at his trial.”

Potter was really ranting now, his voice steadily rising and Draco just looked on, slightly horrified.

“You could tell me that I did the right thing, promising Professor McGonagall that I’d come in and teach Defense Against the Dark Arts in emergencies and show up whenever it pleased her to give all the students lectures, if she promised not to bring up how you let Death Eaters into the school and two students died because of it and my friend got his face bitten off!”

Prongs had faded in Potter’s anger and the coldness of the Dementors was returning and Potter was shouting now and Draco got the vague impression that Potter was not necessarily just yelling for the obvious reasons, but that perhaps Potter was letting off some steam.

“ _You could let me know_ that it was worth giving up a trip to _Australia_ with my _girlfriend_ , to go and get Hermione’s parents back, in favour of _immediately_ beginning training as an Auror to please Kingsley so that he’ll show you _leniency_!”

Potter suddenly shivered and looked about for Prongs, finally realising he’d faded. “FUCKING DEMENTORS!” Potter shouted angrily. He squinted his eyes for a moment, no doubt to think of something happy, and then shouted, _“Expecto Patronum!”_

Prongs reappeared and Potter looked at him reproachfully, like he’d chosen to fade away. 

Draco looked at neither. The thought that Potter might’ve really put some effort into Draco’s case was pretty shocking. And the fact that it had been Potter’s intervention that had saved Lucius was beyond comprehension. It was almost as insane as the thought that Potter had most likely intervened for Draco’s benefit. Draco couldn’t think of anyone that would do that for him, bar his parents.

Potter seemed to be calming down a little. Draco opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He took a deep breath and tried again. “Why did you do it then?”

Potter turned to him, his face still red in aggravation. He turned away to face Prongs and said in a much more controlled voice, “All these people died. Mad-Eye and Hedwig … Dobby … Remus, Tonks and Fred. All because of me. Well, partly because of me.” Potter’s voice returned to normal and he turned back to the cot and sat back down. “But you I saved. Twice.” He looked intently at Draco, willing him to understand. “I didn’t want it to be for nothing.”

Draco did not completely understand, but he nodded his head anyway. They sat in silence for a few minutes and then Draco could not help saying, “You know you’re being a bit arrogant.” Potter scowled. “None of those people died because of you. Not even partly because of you. It was all _him_.”

Potter stared at Draco with a peculiar expression on his face. A mixture of gratitude and annoyance perhaps. He nodded his head to him but Draco could tell he didn’t believe Draco’s words. Potter stood up, and looked towards the cell door.

“You’ll get two to four years,” Potter declared matter-of-factly. “Minimum security most likely. That means you won’t have Dementors stationed outside your door. A couple will hover around the general area, but you’ll mainly be under the guard of wizards. And you get visitation rights. Once a month. You won’t be allowed to see either of your parents though because they’re not allowed visitation, but you can see people on the outside.”

Draco snorted. “There is no one.” But despite this knowledge his heart felt lighter than it had in a month. _Two years? Minimum security?_ He could do that.

Something flittered across Potter’s face for a moment, and Draco thought it might’ve been something like pity. But it was gone so quickly that Draco couldn’t be sure. 

Potter banged on the cell door. “I’m done!” he called out to the guard and then turned back to Draco. “I’ll leave Prongs. He should last a few minutes, until I leave the building.”

Draco smirked and drawled, “I don’t suppose you’d feel like spending the night then?”

Potter gave a little smile as a Dementor came to the cell door. Potter eyed the putrid creature with disgust and then with a small billow of his cloak, was gone. The door was closed again and Draco looked to Prongs who was gazing out the cell door where its master had left him.

Draco attempted to comprehend everything that had just happened. It seemed surreal. But then again every event of the last two years had. A blur of red devil eyes, green mists of death, and Harry Potter circling the beast. The war was over. But he would never be rid of it. He sighed loudly, closed his eyes and concentrated on the sound of his father’s voice, still not accepting the fact that he’d never hear it again, except in his mind. After some time, Draco knew not how long, he felt strange tingles on his nose and he opened his eyes to see Prongs standing over him, his big, doe eyes wide with wonder.

Draco stood up and he reached out a tentative hand to the silvery creature. He felt no fur or flesh, but rather intense feelings of pins and needles. Prongs looked at him curiously, his eyes intelligent and – Draco was surprised to see – playful. Draco smiled at him and patted him idly until finally, like a wisp of smoke, he disappeared. Draco felt the coldness envelope him instantly, but he refused to let it into his heart. It was filled with too much promise of a future he’d only just been given back.

**(())**

_Two years is going to be a lot harder than I thought._

The seconds dripped by. Like a droplet of rain running down the Eiffel Tower. He had no idea how long he had been in Azkaban. It could’ve been months, it could’ve been days. Draco would fall asleep and wake up suddenly with the thought that perhaps only hours had passed. 

He could not keep track of the time, no matter how hard he tried. He thought that the guard was deliberately altering his meal patterns to throw Draco off. He would count in his head after lunch had been given to him. He got to five hours before the strain of concentrating that hard finally got to him, and the little grate that passed his food trays through the cell, had made no movement. Draco was sure that at least twenty-four hours passed before he was presented with his next meal – which should have been dinner. But it was sloppy, cold, porridge. Breakfast. So Draco tried to count again. But always, everything was out of order. Sometimes he was sure he had gone several days before being fed again. And then that dream would come once more, the dream that maybe he had only been there for a couple of days and that all this time he was imagining crawling by was only that, imagining.

Draco’s cell was roughly the size of a cupboard, with a cot pushed flush against the wall, and a toilet in the corner. That was it. There was a tiny, hand size window, but it was boarded shut and painted black. Draco had clawed at the window more than once, but no paint had scratched off. No natural light, no breeze, no escape. The cold, grey stone offered no comfort and the lumpy mattress offered only disturbed sleep. He felt like every time his head had finally hit the mattress at a comfortable angle, and he was finally catching some decent sleep, he would suddenly wake. But then, he had no way of knowing if that was true or not. Perhaps he was unwittingly sleeping for hours. He found better rest on the dirty, gravel floor.

The lights to his cell were thrown on at what Draco was certain were random intervals. But he didn’t know for sure. None of it made any sense. And then there was the cold. It was like a permanent frost but he had no blanket to escape it, and the raggedy clothes were completely inadequate. 

The presence of Dementors was weak in his part of the prison, but they were still felt. They encouraged Draco’s feeling of misery and loneliness and confusion. But he almost longed for their company outside his cell. If he were driven mad, his boredom would be sated. He had never thought boredom could be such a terrible thing. But it was slowly tearing him apart and he was starting to get strange urges to hurt himself, if only to pour some life out of him to remind him that he was real. That he existed. And then he would think to himself that he did not need Dementors. He was driving himself mad very well on his own.

Most of the time, when he could clear his head for long enough, he would think of his parents. He wondered how they were faring in this great fortress. He thought that that was the cruelest thing about being here. To know that his parents were so close, but still, so far away. It would be years until he saw his mother, and he would never see his father again. It seemed so unfair. And Draco wasn’t sure who to blame anymore. Everything culminated in an all too painful emotion and a part of Draco found himself longing for death.

Suddenly, as Draco was lying on the floor, trying to get comfortable, there was the sound of scratching at his door. Then the door was thrown open and light flooded into his room. He threw his arms up to shield his eyes as the light flooded in. But then a spell was muttered and thick coils were thrown around him and there was nothing to stop the light burning his eyes. They watered painfully and Draco squinted hard.

Draco said nothing as he was hovered out of his cell. His eye-lids still firmly shut, painful tears sliding down his face. His mind tried to groggily take in the sounds and scents of his surroundings but it was all happening too fast. Draco tried to open his eyes, but the light burred into them and they were quickly closed again.

The hovering charm was suddenly, unceremoniously, removed. Draco fell to a stone floor, and he heard a loud crack and his wrist began to throb agonizingly, shooting bolts of pain up and down his arm. He whimpered and someone behind him sniggered quietly. There was a loud bang, like a heavy door closing. And then all sounds were gone. Draco clenched at his wrist. He thought it must be sprained. Not broken. If it were broken it would hurt more. Though, it hurt plenty as it was.

Draco attempted to calm himself and tried to organise his thoughts. Where was he now? The cold stone of the floor seemed smooth. Much smoother than the dirty gravel of his cell. He felt it with his good hand. Why would they move him?

Draco panicked. Maybe they had changed their minds and decided to give him The Kiss after all? His heart thumped in his chest. That must be it. What else could it be? 

He would rather die. He would rather die than let one of those foul creatures have his soul. He began shaking and bile rose in his throat.

The sound of the door opening again caused a gasp from Draco. His eyes were still firmly shut. He crawled away from the footsteps until he hit the back wall. He crawled himself into a ball, turning his face away.

“Fuck.” 

Draco’s panic lessened a little. Dementors didn’t talk. The footsteps came right up to him and he could sense someone standing over him. He curled himself into a tighter ball, pulling against his sprained wrist excruciatingly. Suddenly, there was a tentative hand on his arm. He flinched, but the hand remained. The person was warm and their hand was shooting some much needed heat through his body. But he did not relax.

“What have they done to you?” 

The voice was familiar. But Draco’s mind could not process it. The pain, the cold, the fear – paralyzed him.

The hand was removed and with it, went the newfound heat. The person walked away from him and Draco relaxed slightly. Then there were voices. Angry voices. And then it all became too much and Draco knew no more.

**(())**

Draco woke to the smell of honey. He breathed it in deeply. He cautiously opened his eyes. They did not burn. There was a dark glow about the room he was in. Like it was sunset. As his gaze focused, he saw a great window in front of him, confirming it was indeed, early evening.

Draco shifted himself and realised he was in a bed. A real one. With a blanket and a pillow. He groaned as his wrist stabbed at him and he looked down at it. It was wrapped firmly in a bandage. 

He inhaled deeply again and turned to the scent of that sweet honey. He saw Harry Potter. Draco gasped in surprise. The young man was holding a tray in his hands of toast and honey and a glass of pumpkin juice. His face was full of concern.

Draco’s attention was turned away from the food as he stared up at Potter, extremely confused and fatigued. “Where-” Draco’s voice croaked and he cleared it awkwardly. “Where am I?”

Potter moved the tray onto the bedside table. “You’re in the infirmary. In Azkaban,” Potter said gently his face the most receptive Draco had ever seen it. 

“Oh,” replied Draco sleepily “Why?”

Suddenly Potter’s open countenance changed into an angry scowl. “The guard. The one that was looking after you,” Potter growled slightly. “He did things. Things to make you sick.”

Draco gulped and found his mouth was very dry. He looked to the pumpkin juice. Potter followed his gaze and quickly picked the glass up and handed it to Draco who swiftly snatched it and began gulping it down. When it was half empty, Draco balanced it on his stomach and looked back to Potter.

“What did he do?”

Potter took a deep breath and dragged a stool over. He sat down on it. “For starters, he shrunk your room. Put dirt and gravel on the floor. Blocked your window.”

Draco looked straight ahead. He attempted to make his face impassive, but he was too weary.

“He, ah,” Potter continued, “put an anti-sleep charm on your mattress. Didn’t feed you for days sometimes, some other little things.”

Draco should have been furious. But he mainly just felt sadness. At least he knew he wasn’t crazy. He continued gazing ahead through the barred windows of the infirmary. It appeared a lot like the hospital wing at Hogwarts, only it had a more sterile look about it – less homely. “Why did he do it?” asked Draco.

Potter sighed again and shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno. Why does anyone do the terrible things they do?”

Draco turned back to the tray and replaced his pumpkin juice for the toast. He bit into it, hoping the taste of the honey would sweeten the bitterness inside him. They sat in silence for awhile, Draco eating, Potter staring off sporadically, when a thought suddenly occurred to Draco.

“Why are _you_ here?” he asked Potter, not unkindly, but very incredulously. 

“Visitation,” said Potter, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s been a month.”

Draco still looked incredulous. “ _You_ have come to Azkaban to visit _me_.”

Potter nodded his head slowly, and then suddenly smiled as if the ridiculousness of this action had finally just occurred to him. 

Draco shook his head at him. “Why?”

Potter frowned in thought. “I dunno,” he said. “I just … did. You said no one would come to visit you so I just …” Potter shrugged.

Draco wasn’t sure what to make of that. So he turned away from Potter and resumed eating his toast.

“I did want to ask you something though,” said Potter. “About school.”

Draco said nothing and continued to eat his toast. 

“Obviously a lot of our year level haven’t finished our N. E. W. T’s,” said Potter. “So we’re doing it via correspondence. It’s a bit of a pain, but we don’t have to do _all_ the subjects. Ron and I are just doing Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Charms and Herbology. The important stuff.”

Draco finished his first piece of toast and moved on to the next, still lying there impassively.

“I spoke to the warden,” Potter continued, unperturbed by Draco’s silence, “and he said if you wanted to do some of the subjects that aren’t practical, like Arithmancy or Ancient Runes, you could. So that, you know, you’re more qualified for a job when all that comes around for you.”

Draco stopped eating for a moment, considering this. He would’ve liked to say yes, but he was beginning to feel like he was accepting far too many favours from Potter, and he did not want to be in his debt anymore than he already was. These constant feelings of gratitude towards him were not really desirable.

“They were going to offer this to you anyway, you know,” Potter said, clearly reading Draco’s train of thought. “ _I_ didn’t make this happen for you.”

Draco turned to Potter and nodded his head in affirmation. 

“Okay,” said Potter, visibly brightening. “You can do History of Magic, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy and Muggle Studies. They’ll send the text books to you.”

Draco nodded his head again. And then an awkward silence ensued.

“Well, look. I’ve got to go now,” said Potter, running his hands through his hair. “But you’ll probably be in here for another couple of days ‘til you get better. Everything’s been put right in your, um … room. So you’ve got your shower back and a better bed and all the dirt’s gone and stuff. So I’ll-”

“What happened to the guard?” Draco asked, cutting in.

“He was fired,” said Potter looking away. Draco read between the lines and couldn’t help feeling both bemused and satisfied. 

“Okay,” said Potter, standing up. “I’ve really got to go, so bye.” Potter turned and began walking towards the door where two guards stood. 

“Wait,” Draco found himself saying. Potter turned back around to him. Draco rolled his eyes at himself. “Are you, um,” he bit his bottom lip, annoyed at his embarrassment, “are you going to come next time?”

Potter shook his head at him in amused disbelief. “Of course I am.” Then he turned back around and left Draco, calmly eating his toast.

_It is going to be a long two years._

  
**(())**

**Author’s Note:** Thanks to my beta, **AbundantFear**. Review and make me happy!  



	2. Red Heart Trumps Grey Diamond

THE VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCE

**(())**

_“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” – Charles Dickens_

Chapter Two: Red Heart Trumps Grey Diamond

**163 days after the Battle of Hogwarts**   


Draco was surrounded by everything and nothing. A blackness. Impenetrable, inescapable, inevitable. And it was shrinking. Confining him. It was all over him, all around him and suddenly, it was inside of him. Eating away at his core and leaving an expansive nothingness in its wake.

He wanted to scream out in pain. But it was no use. No one was listening. No one cared. He was going to die in this blackness. There was nothing he could do. He felt a sharp pain clenching around his heart and with his death imminent …

… he woke up.

He was hyperventilating. He tried to calm his breathing but his throat felt like there was a large apple lodged in there. His blanket was twisted around him and there was a sheen of sweat all over his skin. He sat upright and the darkness of his cell enveloped him until he found what he needed. 

His little window had let in some of the glow of the moon, which tickled the sides of his cell wall. He scrambled out of his bed, nearly tripping over in his haste, and he threw himself against the reflected moonlight. He slid down the wall as the moonlight washed over hi, and his breathing began to still. 

There was no real relief though, in discovering that it was all only a dream. Because when his eyes were open, and exteriorly he was safe, internally the battle still raged. He glanced up to the calendar he knew was on the wall above his desk. Although he could not see it, he knew it would read tomorrow as a visitation day. This gave Draco relief. A brief moment of his incarceration where some semblance of normalcy could ensue. Where he could pretend that things were slightly better than they actually were. 

He wished it were enough.

(())

Harry woke up to the sound of a portrait coughing and spluttering exaggeratedly.

_Bloody Phineas._

His eyes adjusted to the soft morning light and he felt around on the bedside table for his glasses with his free hand. He found them and sleepily pushed them on and his bedroom at Grimmauld Place came into view, the rays of sun that managed to get around the ice on the windows, revealed a portrait on the wall of a snickering man. Harry’s other arm was being used as a pillow by Ginny. It had gone dead, but he didn’t mind.

He gazed at her sleeping form. Her thick, red hair fell about her pale skin and her pink lips looked extremely enticing. Harry listened to her breathe in her life and he lent into her and took in her scent. The portrait snorted loudly and Ginny inhaled quickly and her eyes popped open. She took a moment to focus, and when she saw Harry watching her, she smiled deeply at him.

“Good morning,” she said sleepily, stretching herself out. Harry smiled back and gave her a chaste kiss in reply. Ginny responded by lifting her leg to wrap around Harry’s waist – a promise of something more – when their bedroom door was thrown open and a slight young woman with big, chestnut coloured eyes and braided brown hair came into view, standing in the threshold. 

“Oh good,” said Hermione unusually obliviously, “you’re up. Can you hurry up, Ginny? I want to get to Diagon Alley by nine. We’ve still got _loads_ of Christmas shopping to do.”

_I think Ron’s rubbing off on her,_ thought Harry.

“Oh, hullo Hermione. Good morning, how are you?” said Ginny, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I certainly hope you’re well. But I see that you are. Perhaps because no one burst in on you at some un-Godly hour in the morning, right before a possible shag.”

Harry bit back a snort and turned his head away from Hermione as she went bright red. Harry was just pleased that it had been so cold last night that after his and Ginny’s private little welcome home; they’d thought to put their pajamas on. 

“Oh …” said Hermione, blushing furiously and staring off at the bathroom to her left. 

“Don’t be embarrassed now. I mean, how could you possibly know that maybe after spending four months at school, away from boyfriend, I may possibly want to be alone with him for a while?”

“Okay, okay,” said Hermione, flapping her arms in a very Ron-like manner. “I’ll just ah, leave you to it then.” Ginny was silently laughing as Hermione looked sheepishly away and closed the door behind her.

“That was a bit cruel,” said Harry, though he was laughing. “You like winding her up a bit too much, I think.”

Ginny smirked at him and began kicking off the covers, making her way out of the bed. “She’s just so tense. You’d think sharing a bed with my brother every night might-”

“Ah, don’t need the visual, thank you.”

Ginny shrugged as she stood up and reached for her yellow dressing gown. 

“Hey,” said Harry. “Where’s my promised shag?” 

Ginny smiled mischievously at him. “Tense or not, she’s right. Three days ‘til Christmas and I’ve only got half my presents. We really should get there early.”

Harry narrowed his eyes playfully at her. “Tease.” 

Ginny giggled and ran a comb through her hair. Harry made his own way out of bed and headed for the bathroom. He had his own shopping to do that day too.

Harry, Ron and Hermione had all been living at Grimmauld Place for a few months now. Directly after the war, Harry and Hermione were living at The Burrow. All of them stayed there, trying to piece their lives back together as the trials began and the newly elected Ministry officials returned order. But on the first of September, when Ginny was to return to Hogwarts for her final year, Harry decided it was time for him to leave, and with him went Hermione. 

Hermione had been reunited with her parents after a group of Aurors tracked them down and returned their memories. But according to Hermione, something had changed between her and her parents. They didn’t seem to look at her the same way. The thought that their little girl could implant memories in their minds and invent whole new lives for them at the flick of a wrist, seemed to disturb them greatly. Plus, the memories of their time as the Wilkins’s seemed to be pleasing. They had moved back to Australia – lackadaisically asking Hermione to go with them. But she would not. It had nearly broken her heart.

Ron, not wanting to be separated from his girlfriend or his best friend, had moved into the Black house too – much to Molly Weasley’s annoyance. And so, there they had lived for the last four months. Harry and Ron were busy with their Auror training and Hermione, now that the trials were over, had moved into the Department of the Control of Magical Creatures. S. P. E. W was rife, and she had just had her first bill passed – Dobby’s Bill. It was an order pertaining that any house-elf owner that abuses their employer may face criminal charges. 

“It’s not much,” Hermione had told Harry, “but it’s a start.”

They were also kept busy by their N. E. W. T’s. Whilst Harry and Ron were only doing four subjects, Hermione was doing seven. She had wanted to do all eleven that she had originally been enrolled in. But Ron had talked her out of it. 

Harry was also kept busy with his monthly visits to see Draco. Not because it took up a lot of time – it was only three hours on a Sunday – but because he was having a lot of trouble keeping his visits secret. 

Harry wasn’t sure exactly _why_ he wanted it to be a secret. At least from Hermione and the Weasleys anyway, who had been well aware of the lengths Harry had gone to in order to cushion the blow on the Malfoys. But Harry felt, in some kind of bizarre and stupid way, very protective of Draco.

The first time he went to see Draco – and had seen the horror that had been inflicted on him by a bored guard, who had thought no one would care about a Death Eater – Harry had been sickened. And in some peculiar way, he had felt responsible for Draco’s pain. Like maybe, if he had done more for him when they had been at school, maybe if he had attempted some kind of truce, none of this would have happened. 

As it were, Harry did not mind the visits very much. They were sometimes awkward and he often had to bite his tongue, and witnessed Draco doing the same. But there was something almost … _endearing_ about his petulant arrogance. Something _innocent_ about the indignant look on his face when he didn’t get what he wanted. 

Harry was not ashamed to admit that his childhood rival made him smile. And it reminded him of simpler times, when Draco was his biggest enemy and not an evil wizard and his band of homicidal Death Eaters.

But none of this really explained _why_ he kept his visits secret from the two people in the world he told practically everything too. He thought about all this intently as he made his way through muggle London in search of a present. 

Harry had been debating for some time, what to get Ginny for Christmas. The Weasleys were a very big family and they had a lot of friends. What if he got Ginny the same present as someone else? Harry had decided the best method of avoiding this was to shop in the muggle world. 

He had been walking up and down the particularly busy streets, slowly freezing to death in the snow, looking in windows, hoping something would pop out at him. But nothing did. He sighed to himself. After years of buying presents for Hermione, he had thought he would be better at this. But Hermione was not Ginny. And the way he felt about Ginny, he certainly didn’t feel for Hermione.

He stood outside a jeweler – Louis Jean Re’moi. He looked at the watch on his wrist, the one that had once belonged to Fabian Prewett. It read ten o’clock. Harry sighed. He had to be at the Ministry soon if he was going to floo to Azkaban in time for Draco’s visitation. 

He stepped out of the icy cold and made his way into the store. It was much quieter than the other stores Harry had glanced in. A short look at some of the price tags told him why. But Harry shrugged his shoulders. Ginny was worth it, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t have the money. And it was easy to shop in the muggle world now, as Hermione and Harry had both acquired credit cards from a Swiss muggle bank, which worked directly with Gringotts. 

Harry looked about the regal shop, with its polished floors and chesterfield sofas. It certainly looked promising. Harry was glancing around at the display cabinets, uncertain as to what would be appropriate, when a middle-aged man approached him, looked him up and down distastefully and asked in an extremely pompous tone, “Can I help you, sir?” He said it as if hoping Harry were just lost, and not a prospective customer.

Harry held back the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, I’m looking for a present for my girlfriend.”

“And what,” asked the man, still looking at him in abhorrence, “is your price range? Perhaps _Harry Winston_ would be more appropriate.”

“My _range_ ,” said Harry, narrowing his eyes, “is the price of whatever I pick out.”

“Very well,” said the man, still obviously believing Harry were some kind of beggar. Harry really hadn’t thought he’d dressed that badly. Just normal black muggle jeans and a green coat. “What are you looking for? A little charm perhaps?”

“No,” said Harry, a slight resentfulness to his voice. “I can’t get her a ring though, ‘cause that would be a little … presumptuous. I was thinking maybe some earrings.” 

The man still had that look about him that doubted Harry would buy so much as paper box from his store, but he looked resigned to the fact he would have to at least show Harry the merchandise.

They went through several pairs of earrings, none of which Harry thought would particularly suit Ginny. But as they went on, the store clerk seemed to become less repulsed by Harry, as he clearly enjoyed his job. He had just gone out the back to get a pair of earrings that had just come in; that the store clerk thought would suit Ginny – based on Harry’s description of her – when something in a cherry wood display cabinet caught Harry’s eye. It was reflecting off a gold wrist watch that another patron was trying on. Harry stood up from his chair and stepped away from the little table that he and the store clerk had been using. 

When he reached the cabinet he saw what appeared to be a large charm or brooch. It had three, white gold coils all wrapped around each other so intricately that Harry never would have been able to follow the pattern of one coil, to see where it started and where it ended. Harry imagined that the coils would have been as tall as him when stretched out. And sitting in the middle of these coils was a large, grey stone, framed in smaller black stones. They looked like diamonds, but Harry had never seen diamonds that shade before. He gazed at it wondrously and then, was slightly horrified to realise that it reminded him of Draco. Perhaps because the grey diamond was so similar to Draco’s eyes or because the charm had a sort of, uneven elegance to it that was so like Draco. 

Harry didn’t have long to think about it though, as the store clerk summoned him back to the chair. Harry sat back down, glancing back over at the charm as the clerk prattled on about the earrings he’d just got. Rose gold studs with a canary yellow diamond. They were simple and pretty and Harry thought that they would suit Ginny well. 

The man looked proud of himself and then tentatively told Harry the price – £599. They were easily the most expensive thing Harry had ever bought, but he just shrugged his shoulders. The clerk seemed both shocked and pleased as Harry handed over his credit card and he went to run it up. 

Harry involuntarily looked over at the cabinet again, knowing what he wanted to do, but wondering why he should. It probably cost a fortune. More than double what Ginny’s earrings were. But when the clerk came back to Harry to hand back his card, all pompousness gone, Harry asked him if he could look at the brooch.

The clerk beamed and Harry sighed to himself, wondering what kind of trouble he was about to start.

(())

Draco sat on his bed, his hands in his lap, staring intently at his cell door. He looked like an eager schoolboy on his first day, his eyes all wide and attentive, his hands wringing nervously.

He was waiting.

His cell was neat, orderly and sterile. His bed was made, his homework and school books stacked neatly on his little table, and a soft stream of light filtered in from the tiny window. The only thing that disturbed this scene was a massive funnel web spider in the left hand corner of the ceiling.

“Any second now, Esther,” Draco whispered softly, addressing the spider but still staring fixatedly on the door. “Almost time.” 

And then, the sound of the locks being undone came through to Draco and he stood quickly. Ebenezer Crick, Draco’s dark, portly guard stood at the door, flanked by two Dementors.

“Well, it’s that time of the month again,” Crick groaned out in his husky voice. He was a miserable old coot, but he was without judgment. Draco appreciated that. “Ready to go are you, Malfoy?”

“Yes,” he replied, as the cheerlessness of the Dementors began to fill him with cold dread. 

“Well, come on then,” said Crick motioning with his arms, clearly keen to be rid of the putrid creatures too.

Draco raised his eyebrows in farewell to Esther the funnel web, and walked out of his cell. His spirits were instantly raised, despite the immediate presence of Dementors. It was like this every time. Draco didn’t care that he only had three hours. He didn’t care that his time was spent with someone he didn’t particularly like. It was just always a relief to be out of his cell. To breathe some new air, see something different; speak to someone other than a poisonous spider.

Draco’s life in Azkaban had improved greatly since the firing of his old guard. And his N. E. W. T’s kept him busy. He was even surprised to find that Muggle Studies was not a completely boring subject – though he still liked Ancient Runes best, just like when he’d been at Hogwarts. But despite this, the first month in Azkaban lingered with him, haunting him at day or night. When he was out of his cell, and had a distraction, he was able to forget, if only temporarily, about that seamlessly never-ending blackness that had become his life.

They reached the end of the grey stone hall, and Crick opened the door to the visitation room. Draco walked in without comment; the door was closed firmly behind him and he could hear the sound of the locks, shutting him in.

He looked to his visitor, who was sitting at a rickety old table in the grey stone room – that was not unlike the hall, but squarer – with a newspaper shielding his face. He looked to the left and saw a glittering silvery creature. Prongs. The stag was lying down on the floor, apparently taking a nap. Harry Potter seemed hypersensitive to Dementors, and even if there was one, just one, a hundred metres away, Potter would still conjure Prongs.

Draco sat in the chair opposite, silently, embracing the warmth of the Patronus. The paper was quickly stuffed down and Potter looked at Draco, enquiry covering his features and something plastic hanging out of his mouth. Draco recognised the object from his Muggle Studies textbook. A pen. 

“What’s another word,” asked Potter, the pen wobbling as he spoke, “for … _lascivious_?” 

There were never any greetings in these meetings. Never a ‘Hello’ or ‘Are you well?’ Draco liked this. He hated pretence. 

“Do you know what it starts with?” asked Draco.

“No,” said Potter, removing the pen from his mouth. “But the fifth letter is ‘d’ and the last letter is ‘s’.”

“Hmm,” thought Draco. “Libidinous.”

Potter looked down at the _Daily Prophet_ crossword puzzle. “Perfect!”

Potter pressed the top down on his pen and wrote down the answer. He often did things like this when he was with Draco; brought school homework or Auror case studies that he would then proceed to ask Draco’s opinion on. Draco was curious as to why Potter did this, but did not want to ask.

“You never struck me as the ‘crossword puzzle type’, Potter,” said Draco, staring down at his hands and cleaning his fingernails.

“I’m not,” Potter said easily. “I’ve got a bet going with Ron. What’s the capital of New Zealand? I thought it was Auckland but it doesn’t fit.”

“Well it wouldn’t,” Draco drawled looking up at Potter haughtily, “being that _Wellington_ is the capital of New Zealand.”

“Oh.” Potter scrawled down the answer.

“What kind of bet have you got with Weasley?”

“Last person to finish the puzzle has to tell Percy blonde is _not_ his colour.”

“And here you are cheating, tut, tut,” drawled Draco, ignoring the horrific images in his mind of what a blonde Weasley might look like.

Potter shrugged. “Hermione will end up doing his anyway. Besides, I’ve only got one more to go. The ‘What Am I?’”

“Right then,” said Draco. “Let’s hear it.”

“Okay,” said Potter, all practicality, he held the paper up to read it. “‘I am an herbivorous beast from the Far East with the power of invisibility–’” 

“Demiguise,” said Draco smoothly. Potter frowned and looked intently at the crossword to see if it would fit.

“That’s it,” he said, writing it down. “You’re a freak, Draco. And you just saved me a lot of grief.” 

When he was finished the paper immediately began to glitter and glow and then popped out of the room. 

“We enchanted the paper,” said Potter to Draco’s questioning expression. “It’s been sent directly to Ron.”

Draco nodded his head, now out of things to say. But Potter was nothing if not pre-emptive. He pulled out from a large bag under his chair, a thin tin, larger than a matchbox. Potter was wearing muggle clothes today. Normally, he wore robes.

“I want to teach you a game,” declared Potter. “If you’re willing,” he added for civility. He opened the tin and out came a deck of cards. Potter began rifling through them, disposing of certain ones.

“What kind of game?” Draco curiously asked.

“It’s a muggle game,” said Potter. Draco curled his lip but said nothing. “It’s called Five Hundred. It’s normally played with at least four people, but I’m just teaching you so it’ll work fine with two.”

“I much prefer chess,” Draco hinted, “to card games.”

“I know,” said Potter, apparently ignoring the hint as he flicked away one of the jokers.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “How do you know that I like chess?”

Potter looked up to him for a moment, as he shuffled the remaining cards, flipping his fingers expertly through the pack. “You used to play it at school all the time. In the court yard behind the greenhouses. You know, that tournament that the Ravenclaws used to run.”

“Oh,” said Draco. “Hmm. How did you know about that? I never saw you there.”

“Well I’m not very good at chess, so you wouldn’t,” said Potter as he began dealing the cards out, as if four people were playing. “But Ron’s good. He won the tournament in third year.”

“Oh. Yes.” Draco’s face darkened slightly. “I remember.”

“Yeah,” said Potter. “Didn’t play again after that though. Said it wasn’t worth the stress. Plus, he was the youngest player in like, fifty years to win so …” Draco again, said nothing and Potter asked politely, “Did you ever win?”

“Yes,” Draco answered, attempting to hide the pride from his voice, but failing. “In fifth year.”

Potter nodded his head, obviously not particularly impressed, and he began explaining the mechanics of Five Hundred and Draco listened with surprising attentiveness. 

Draco had noticed in his previous visitation that Potter had a very easy way about him. A sort of naturally accepting nature and Draco noticed that he was much less arrogant than he had once thought. That, combined with Draco reluctant gratitude to Potter, meant that Draco was, for the most part, agreeable to Potter.

But Draco had almost immediately recognised that there was this look in Potter’s eyes. Like something that had once been there had been beaten out. The affect of the war, no doubt. There was no innocence to him anymore. And only a very little amount of optimism. This pleased Draco. Not in a sardonic way, but because he felt like for once in their lives, they were silently relating to each other. 

After an hour of explanation and the arrival of lunch – just some turkey and cranberry sandwiches – Draco decided he wanted to play against Potter. Draco would take two positions and Potter would take the other two.

“I think we should play another open hand first,” said Potter, though he seemed pleased by Draco’s enthusiasm. Indeed, when Potter had told Draco that the best skill to have for this game was an ability to keep track of people and what they’ve been playing; Draco decided that he would be very good at Five Hundred. Certainly he could read people very well, and he had a good memory.

“No,” declared Draco, scooping up all the cards. “We’re playing.” Draco looked up at Potter and saw that he was smiling. 

“You’re not used to not having your way, huh?” Potter grinned. Draco began dealing the cards as Potter had instructed.

“Privilege of wealth, Potter,” drawled Draco. “I generally get what I want.” Potter shook his head, bemusedly, and neither commented on the current irony of that statement. 

“It’s not really going to work, you know,” said Potter, “with only two people.”

“It’ll be fine,” said Draco, firmly. “Now stop trying to delay your inevitable defeat.”

Potter laughed out loud this time. Draco thought it changed his appearance dramatically for the better. His mouth opened wide to reveal neat teeth and his cheekbones took an attractive stance. His eyes lightened and the sound of his pleasant laughter danced around the room. 

Draco scowled when he realised he was staring, and he scooped up his cards. Potter gathered his own as his laugh died down. 

Draco ordered the cards, his own, and then the cards of the person who would have been his partner – hearts, clubs, diamonds then spades. Draco sighed in thought. _His_ hand was strong in clubs, but his “partner’s” was strong in diamonds and had only two, small clubs. He looked back at his own hand. He had a four diamonds. He only had to win six tricks. Between the two hands, it should be easy.

“I bet six diamonds,” said Draco confidently.

“I’m meant to bet first,” said Potter, still looking pleasantly amused.

Draco snorted. “Why?”

“’Cause you dealt. Standard card game etiquette, Malfoy,” said Potter teasingly. It was the first time that Potter had called him ‘Malfoy’ in a very long time. 

“Build a bridge, Potter,” said Draco insolently. “Now bet, if you think you’ve got anything.”

“You bet diamonds, huh?”

“Yes,” said Draco, with raised eyebrows.

“Are you _sure_ about that?”

Draco rolled his eyes snootily. “Spare me that psyche-out bullshit, and place your damn bet,” said Draco. “Or let me get on with the ass-kicking.”

Harry smiled. “Alright,” he said. “I pass. The kitty’s yours.”

Draco smirked smugly and picked up the remaining cards in the centre of the table. “I knew you were just waffling,” he said as he discarded his three hearts and took what was in the kitty instead. 

Draco led with the ace of spades, Potter played the five of spades, then Draco played the six of spades, then Potter played the jack of spades. Draco smiled smugly and took the first trick.

“So,” said Potter, conversationally. “How’s your N. E. W. T’s going?” 

Draco played the king of spades and said, “Fine. It’s not much different from sixth year. Though Muggle Studies is kind of hard, because I’ve never done that before.”

“It would be hard,” said Potter as he played low spades and Draco won that trick as well. “But it’s important to know about them and the way they live.”

“You think so?” said Draco, a slight trace of contempt and skepticism to his voice as he led with a third spade.

“Yes,” said Potter firmly. “I do.” Potter then put a diamond on top of Draco’s spade, and took the trick.

Draco watched this and scowled angrily, leaning across the table, trying to snatch the cards back. “Hey! I played a spade; you have to play a spade! There’s none of that trucking yet!”

“It’s _trumping_ ,” said Potter, laughing at Draco and holding the cards behind his back and out of reach. “And I can _trump_ whenever I want, as long as I don’t have any of the suit that you lead with. My “partner” has no more spades.”

Draco sat back down, his eyes narrowed, muttering under his breath. Potter looked down at his cards, clearly trying not to laugh. Potter’s “partner” led this time, as they had won the trick. Potter dropped the ace of clubs down.

“So, uh,” said Potter, “you’re uh, not getting anymore grief are you? From anyone here?”

Draco purposefully avoided Potter’s gaze and played the lowest club he had, not wanting to waste any of the higher ones as he could not beat Potter’s ace. “Everything’s fine,” he said a little closed-lipped.

“I only ask,” said Potter, scooping up that trick and putting it on top of the other one as Draco’s narrowed eyes followed his movements darkly, “because uh, the guard, Crick, he uh, said you um ...” Potter sighed loudly and looked down at his cards. “Well, he um, kind of, er-”

Draco’s envious eyes left the trick he’d just lost and glanced up at Potter in annoyance. “For fuck’s sake, Potter, just say it.”

“He said you’ve been having nightmares.”

Draco froze as Potter played the joker – the highest card in the game. 

_Figures_ he’d _have it._

Potter looked up at Draco, waiting for him to play his next card, but Draco sat their frozen.

“I’m sorry I brought it up,” said Potter softly. “It’s your business. It’s just that … you know no one would blame you if you were a little stressed out … and I thought I should give you a heads up because uh, they’re going to give you a psych evaluation. Crick just told me today.”

Draco spun around to Potter. “I’m not doing that!”

“I don’t think you’ve got much choice,” said Potter. “But I mean, you’ll get out of your cell for a day, and if they think it necessary, you could start having sessions with a psychologist and then you’ll get out of your cell like, once a week.”

Draco mentally cursed Potter for that. For preying on what Draco longed for the most – escape. But what the fuck was a ‘psych evaluation’? What were they going to do to him? Would they make him take potions to calm him like the mentally unstable? What if they want to hurt him like that guard had?

“What will they do?”

“I dunno,” said Potter in small voice, shrugging his shoulders.

Draco sighed, avoiding Potter’s gaze and bit down on his bottom lip, embarrassedly, before he finally turned to Potter and said, “Could you come with me?”

Potter’s eyes turned away for a moment and his facial expression went a bit odd. Then he slowly nodded his head in agreement. Draco took in a deep breath of relief and threw down a diamond as the joker always followed whatever trumps are. Diamonds, in this case.

They continued their game in a bit of a subdued sort of fashion. Draco did not win another trick and Potter later explained to him that he shouldn’t have bet on diamonds unless he had had one of the red jacks or the joker. Potter had all of them.

They made small talk and Potter filled Draco in on the latest Quidditch news. Draco supported the Falmouth Falcons. A fact that Potter found amusing for some reason. Potter claimed that he supported the Appleby Arrows, but when Weasley was around, the Chudley Canons. 

Then two o’clock came and Crick banged on the door, telling them to wrap it up. Potter stood up to leave and Draco followed suit, turning his back towards the door. He turned back around to say goodbye to Potter and saw that he was standing right next to the young man who had a small box in his hand, wrapped in deep green wrapping paper. 

Draco met Potter’s eyes which were wide and questioning, and also doubtful. Of what though, Draco didn’t know. Draco held his gaze as Potter gave him a very little smile. 

“Happy Christmas, Draco.” Then he pushed the present into Draco’s hands and walked quickly out. Draco stared at it open-mouthed.

“We already scanned it,” came the wheezy voice of Ebenezer Crick, standing at the door flanked by two Dementors who were reluctant to come too close as Prongs still lounged in the corner. “Nothing in it of concern.”

Draco absently nodded his head and walked out of his cell, throwing a glance back at Prongs who stood up as he left, as if wanting to follow. But the door was closed and Draco was led back to his cell. All the while, staring down at the present in his hands, wondering what on Earth it could be.

Crick locked Draco back into his cell and Draco immediately walked over to his little desk and put the present on it. He sat there staring at it for a while before he finally picked it up and greedily ripped the paper off it. 

A pretty, black wooden box was revealed and Draco ran his hands over the smooth surface before setting it back down and cautiously opening it, wondering if there would be anything inside or if Potter’s present was just the nice box.

As the lid came off, and the box’s content was uncovered, Draco’s eyes went wide and he clamped his hands over his mouth. And, typical of whenever he had received nice, expensive things, and almost as if he wasn’t in Azkaban, surrounded by homicidal psychos and Dementors, Draco let out a rather girlish squeal and did a strange, little kind of dance in his chair, flapping his hands about.

His father always blamed his mother for this kind of behaviour.

He picked up the beautiful trinket and felt the smoothness of the coils and watched the way the small light from the window made the stones glitter prettily up at him. And in that moment, surrounded by what he was, and feeling everything that he had been feeling – he had never loved _any_ other object, he had _ever_ had, more.

(())

Harry picked up a fistful of floo powder, a very strange kind of feeling in his chest. He walked into the grate, ready to leave Azkaban. He threw the powder down and shouted, “The Ministry of Magic!”

He felt his stomach propelling him onwards as soot got up his nose and he watched grates flash by, seeing flashes of people before finally landing – thankfully on both feet – in the Floo Hall of the Ministry. 

He absent-mindedly brushed the soot off his clothes, wishing that traveling this way was a bit cleaner. He raised his head, heading for the residential grates to go home when the sight of his two best-friends, standing directly in front of him, both with scowls on their faces and disapproval in their stance, stopped him in his tracks.

“So, Harry,” said Hermione tartly, her hands on her hips. “Anything you want to tell us?”

(())

**Author’s Notes:** This chapter was rather uneventful, but necessary. And the Lord said, “Love thy beta.” And I do. Thank you, **AbundantFear**.

Thanks must also go to everyone who reviewed the first chapter. You guys are the chocolate in brownies, the cherries on top, Heath Ledger in _Brokeback Mountain_ , Britney Spears pre-skank, Quarter Pounders, public holidays and movie marathons. You rock my world. 

Reviewers of this chapter get imaginary lollipops!


	3. Secrets Should Be Secret

**THE VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCE**

**(())**

**Author’s Note:** I am very sorry that this chapter is late, but my beta was in a car accident and I _refused_ to post it until she was well and could beta it.

**(())**

_“Each mind fabricates itself. We sense its limits for we have made them.” – Rainer Maria Rilke_

Chapter Three: Secrets Should Be Secret

**164 days after the Battle of Hogwarts**

Harry let out another exasperated sigh and stared longingly at the pumpkin scones that Kreacher had just brought out from the kitchen. They were deliciously aromatic and he really wanted to reach out and grab one, but the seriousness of his current situation stopped him.

“So,” said Hermione, pacing up and down in front of Harry. He had begun a steady sink into the couch the moment they’d gotten back from the Ministry, and Hermione had pushed him down into it and proceeded to interrogate him. “So let me get this straight. You have been _secretly_ going to see Malfoy for months now? Because you – and I quote – “feel sorry for him”?”

Harry glanced over at Ron, but didn’t catch his eye. The red-head sat sullenly and silently in the corner and Harry was thankful for Ginny’s absence – she was eating dinner at The Burrow. The siblings were more similar than Harry had the guts to admit in front of either of them, and he believed their reactions would be very similar. 

“You know I feel sorry for him,” Harry offered by way of explanation. “Why do you think I testified at his trial?”

Hermione waved her hand dismissively. “You don’t understand what I’m getting at. It’s not so very strange that you would feel pity for him, or that you would perhaps go and check in on him on occasion.”

Ron’s face scrunched into a disgusted scowl. He had been doing that on and off since Harry had walked out of the grate at the Ministry of Magic. Apparently Percy had seen Harry go through the Azkaban grate, and had mentioned it to Ron. Ron had told Hermione who had investigated the situation, eventually discovering the truth.

“What’s strange Harry,” Hermione continued, “is that you didn’t tell us. Or even Ginny. It makes me suspicious.”

Harry’s brow furrowed and he stared up at her indignantly. “Suspicious?” Of all the things Harry had expected Hermione to say, that wasn’t one of them. What was suspicious about it?

“Yes!” declared Hermione. “Suspicious! Because why would you want to keep it a secret? I doubt you were ashamed, that’s not your style-”

“I didn’t tell you,” Harry spoke up, aggravation filling his voice, “because I knew you would over-react like this!” 

A voice deep inside Harry said this was not entirely true. But it seemed like a reasonable enough excuse and Harry quickly attempted to convince himself of its veracity.

“That’s not fair,” said Hermione. “We don’t always agree with each other, but we’ve always been supportive.”

This was also, not entirely true. But he thought better than to comment on it now. He was feeling far too defensive and it would only make the circumstances worse. 

“You would’ve … you would’ve tried to talk me out of it!” said Harry stubbornly and he stood up and paced by the window. “And I notice you aren’t being very supportive now.”

Hermione sighed and she finally sat down across from where he’d just been. “We’re just worried, okay? We’d rather you didn’t get mixed up with him or his family.”

“I get it,” said Harry. “I know you mean well, but you’ve just got to trust me, okay? Surely I’m not the only one who cares about what happens to him deep down?”

Hermione raised her eyebrows incredulously. “Sure. Deep down I care. Deep, deep down … in a _well_ … under a rock.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile at that. Partly because Harry was sure that Hermione _would_ care if she had seen Draco the way Harry had. With all his walls broken down and barely a shell of a person left. And partly because Hermione was, generally speaking, a compassionate person.

“All we do is make small talk,” Harry said in a pacifying voice. “It’s just to give him a break. I won’t keep it a secret anymore. I’ll tell Ginny later tonight-”

_“Do not tell Ginny!”_

Hermione and Harry both snapped their heads around to Ron, who had gone bright red in the face. “Don’t. Tell. Her. She _hates_ him. Hates his father in particular. Do you forget what that bastard did to her?”

“Of course not!” Harry ran his hands through his hair as he thought of the way Ginny’s eyes narrowed nastily whenever the name ‘Malfoy’ was mentioned. Harry understood – but Draco was not Lucius.

“Well, just don’t see him anymore,” said Ron, rather shrilly, pushing his hands through the air in a smothering motion, “and then we won’t tell her anything, and everything will go back to normal and we’ll never talk about it again.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest but he caught Hermione’s eye. She was shaking her head furiously at him. So Harry turned to Ron and nodded his head in agreement. But it was all for show. There was no way that Harry would stop seeing Draco. Every time the thought even crossed his mind, Harry would see Draco curled in a ball on the ground. His black and white prison robes covered in filth, his thin body shaking madly and his eyes full of torment. That image had etched itself into his brain. It, much like Draco, would not be ignored.

Hermione spent the rest of the evening giving him significant looks. But Ron seemed determined to ignore the fact that Draco Malfoy had once again become a part of their lives. Harry spoke very little to either, and instead wondered intently, how on Earth he was going to be able to see Draco without them knowing now. The psych evaluation was on Boxing Day.

**(())**

It was Christmas Eve when Harry wrote the letter. He wasn’t quite sure why he did it. He doubted any of them would even read it. But maybe … maybe one of them would. Maybe one of them would care. Harry had never thought _he’d_ care. But obviously he did. The war had changed him in ways he didn’t completely understand yet. And that scared him a little.

So he sat at his desk in the study whilst Hermione and Ron had breakfast, and he wrote a letter to the only blood relatives he had.

_Dear Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Dudley,_

_I’m sure you’ve gathered by this stage, that the war is over. For good. And I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know I shall never return to Privet Drive uninvited. But I thought it was important that I make sure you’re all alright, and to let you know that I am alright. If you ever need anything, you may write to me at the address on this envelope. Don’t worry, no more owls._

_Hoping you all have a good Christmas,_

_Harry_

It was simple and casual, and perhaps a little politer than necessary, but Harry folded the letter and put it in an envelope anyway, carefully printing the address. He put a little stamp in the top, right hand corner.

He would stick to his word and not use an owl. Three such birds sat on a perch by the window, looking at him expectantly. Pigwidgeon twittered on his end of the perch, clearly hoping Harry would choose him to send the letter. Iome, Hermione’s barn owl, avoided Harry’s gaze. She didn’t like anyone using her but Hermione, and Hermione used her plenty. The last one, a large eagle owl with rather large talons and black feathers, stood on the perch with eyes of complete calm. He was Harry’s. 

It had been hard to go back to the Owl Emporium, after what had happened to Hedwig. But it had needed to be done. The Auror Professors demanded that they all had owls, for a start. It was necessary for handing in assignments. So Harry had chosen the owl that had appeared the most self-dependent, and had left there quickly. He called him Mercury. Because the owl had eyes the exact colour of mercury poison – as Hermione had pointed out in distaste when he’d brought him home.

Harry stood and walked over to their perch. He held the letter out to Mercury who took it into his strong beak. He didn’t like letters strapped to his legs. Pig hooted disappointedly.

“Take it to the Post Office in Diagon Alley. I want it posted the muggle way.”

Harry opened the window and Mercury’s large wings expanded out as he soared out the window. Harry watched him fly off until he disappeared from view. He stood there, looking at the grey sky and letting the icy air fill the room until the door was swung open and Ron bounded in. 

“I can’t believe we have class on Christmas Eve. It’s such bollocks.”

Harry shut the window. “Yeah, but only six months to go and we can start work.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” Ron headed for the grate and picked up a fistful of Floo Powder. “You coming?” 

“Yeah,” Harry said, moving to join Ron. “I hope Professor Prachett is still sick. Old git.”

Ron snorted as he stepped into the grate and shouted, “The University of Camelot!” Harry followed after and soon they were walking the frosty campus, dodging other students as they made their way to the Auror Building.

Harry had asked, on his first day, if Camelot was named after the mythological city that had been destroyed centuries ago. He had been told, rather bemusedly that this was the ancient city and that it was never destroyed, just reclaimed. Which meant absolutely nothing to Harry, but he didn’t think it wise to question further. He was no longer a particularly curious being. That had died with the war.

Camelot was the only university in the United Kingdom, and there were only five world wide. One each in Poland, Egypt, Canada and Thailand. They were all at least the size of Hogwarts, teaching things from Auror Training to Dragon Taming, from Gringotts Banking to teaching.

It was a beautiful campus, even covered in snow. Medieval buildings as far as the eye could see, each with more history than some countries could boast. Harry would have liked to explore the campus, but he didn’t really have the time and so he had to make do with the Auror Building. It was a rather imposing tower-like structure, with each level representing the different subjects they studied. Potions, charms, defensive magicks, dark arts history, administration and offensive magicks.

As they approached the grey stone, Harry saw familiar faces standing outside, waiting to be allowed in. 

“Hiya, Harry! And you too, Ron.” A bright-faced American girl with a fantastic ability for Charms approached them. “Goddamn Prachett’s being a prick. Won’t open the doors until nine o’clock. Which, you know would be fine, but for the fact he wants us here at eight thirty.”

“Idiot,” muttered Ron. 

A few others that they had been friendly with over the last few months – most of them girls – came over to speak to them as well. When Ron and Harry had first started, no one could even look them in the eye. But eventually their peers had begun to see them as normal people, and excessive reverence was only shown to Harry on rare occasions now.

“Jayla, honey,” said a dark girl from South Africa with a knack for Veritaserum. “Please tell me you scored with that very fine piece of work over there.”

Jayla, the bright-faced American followed her friend’s eye line to a group of mainly guys, huddled in a group on the other side of the entrance. Harry knew who they were referring to. A young Italian man, with big chocolate brown eyes and a debonair air. 

After all the females in their class had accepted the fact that both Harry and Ron were in perfectly happy relationships and weren’t interested in “branching out”, attention had quickly turned to Furio. Who was, apparently, “six feet of pure, unadulterated, European perfection”. Ron thought he was an idiot. Harry thought he had a nice _Stupefy_.

Jayla went a little red as she turned to the group. “Um … no I didn’t. And I don’t think any of us are. He’s, um, he’s gay. And I found that out the hard way.”

There was a collective sigh of disappointed from the girls, but Harry looked to Ron and Basim, a young Lebanese man with a killer _Petrificus Totalus_. Harry was much more interested in their reactions. Neither of them seemed particularly surprised or disgusted. 

“Is that common in the wizarding world?” Harry asked Ron and Basim quietly as the girls talked about what exactly Jayla meant when she said, “the hard way”. 

Ron shrugged. “I dunno. Whatever floats your boat.”

Basim leaned over. “There isn’t as much prejudice in the wizarding world,” he clarified in a slight Arabic accent, “between race and sexuality. It’s always been more about blood purity. Some pure-blood families don’t really like it, just because they’re not going to be producing kids then. But it’s not really a big deal. We have a rather large bi-sexual population, as a result.”

Harry nodded his head in understanding. It made sense. And as Harry thought about it, he remembered something that Dean Thomas, an old Hogwarts friend, had once said. 

“I’m up against it for being black in the muggle world, and I’m up against it for being a muggle-born in the wizarding world.”

Harry looked over to Furio, curiously. He hadn’t met anyone that was gay before. Or maybe he just hadn’t known they were gay when he’d met them? Suddenly Furio met is gaze and looked at him rather intently. Harry smiled at him casually and turned back to Ron and Basim. 

They talked Quidditch for a couple of minutes, willing the minutes away so they could get inside out of the frost and get the class over with. Harry had a N. E. W. T. Potions essay due soon that he was hoping to finish so he would have the rest of the week free to spend with Ginny. Potions was a subject he now found quite easy, thanks to his Auror classes which were much harder. 

Harry was just thinking to himself that if Prachett didn’t open the door in one minute he was going to blast it down, when he heard his name mentioned by one of the girls. “What was that?” he asked, turning to face them.

“We were just saying,” said Jayla, looking highly amused, “that we should’ve known about Furio. He’s looking at _you_ with a lot more interest than he ever showed us.” 

The girls giggled and Ron and Basim looked behind them to Furio. Harry did not. Basim laughed, “They’re right. He’s being rather blatant actually.”

Harry’s defensive-humour immediately went up. “Well I am very good-looking. I don’t blame him.”

Ron snorted as Professor Prachett finally opened the great oak doors, his arrogant face in a smirk. They shuffled inside; shaking off snow from their clothes. And to Harry’s relief, no further mention of Furio was made. He gave him a wide berth all class.

They worked on making Apparating Draughts from natural supplies for if-and-when they are stranded without their wands. Prachett skulked around them making biting remarks about everybody’s work except Harry’s. This only annoyed Harry as he was quite clearly one of the weaker students when it came to Potions, and he did not appreciate the barefaced favouritism. Three hours later they were dismissed and Prachett gave them assignments for Christmas. Because he was a nice man like that. 

As Harry and Ron trudged their way through the snow, heading for the Floo Hall to go home, Jayla called out to them, “Hey! Christmas party in my dorm tonight! Bring your girlfriends!” 

“Oh good!” said Ron. “Hermione was talking about going to the Lovegoods. Now we’ve got an excuse to say no.”

Harry laughed as he grabbed a fistful of Floo Powder. He was pleased. He had no great desire to see Xenophilius, even if he was Luna’s father.

**(())**

Hermione was extremely peeved at having to cancel on the Lovegoods at such short notice. But as both Ron and Harry were keen to go to Jayla’s party, and neither Hermione nor Ginny liked the idea of them going to a girl’s party alone, she did not have much choice but to agree.

Ginny dressed Harry. Something Harry kind of annoyed and Ron found very amusing. Hermione, however, thought Harry looked much better than usual and brashly stated that he should let Ginny dress him all the time.

She’d put him in – what Harry considered to be far too tight – black trousers and black leather, shin high boots. This accompanied a plain white shirt and an earthy green robe-coat that buttoned down to his waist. She also made him wear contacts and ran this weird, white mousse through his hair. Ginny said he looked sexy. Harry thought he looked like a try-hard, wizard aristocrat. But he was, for some strange reason, _particularly_ hot around the collar, and was eager to please her that night. So he suffered silently.

Ginny herself had gone to a lot of effort to impress their university friends. She was wearing skin tight brown leather pants and a yellow halter that made Ron scowl. Her brother had opened his mouth to protest but then Hermione had glided down the stairs looking very classy in a blue cocktail dress and he was silenced. 

Ron wore an unmistakable smile of pride all the way to the Lady of Shallot dorm. They banged loudly on the front door. A pink-haired girl yanked the door open. The sound of music instantly pounded through their ears. They had obviously used a silencing charm around the dorm. 

The girl didn’t even bother staying to see who they were; she just turned on her heel, a Firewhiskey in her hand. They cautiously stepped into a crowded hall that opened up to a crowded lounge on the left, and a crowded kitchen to the right. The place was half-heartedly decorated for Christmas, with a tree bedecked with beer cans to top it off. There was the stench of beer and Firewhiskey and a lot of smoke filling the air. 

Hermione closed the door behind them as Harry’s eyes scanned the crowd, looking for someone he and Ron knew. Harry was relieved to see that several guys were wearing similar clothes to him. 

“ARGH! HARRY! RON! YOU CAME!” 

Jayla came running up to them, clearly pissed. She threw her arms, very ungracefully around Harry and squeezed him tight. Harry laughed and patted her on the back. She let go and moved on to Ron, giving him a smacking kiss on the cheek.

“So, introduce me to your bitches!” Jayla said loudly. Harry could feel Hermione flinch, but he turned to her and gave her a reassuring smile. It was just the way Jayla spoke, alcohol or not. She didn’t mean anything by it. 

Harry introduced the girls and Jayla exclaimed loudly over Hermione’s dress and told Ginny that she was far too hot to be only seventeen. Jayla then left as quickly and as loudly as she had come.

“Well,” said Hermione, her eyebrows raised. “She seems nice.” 

Hermione was then approached by a slight brunette girl who looked vaguely familiar to Harry. It turned out to be Mandy Brocklehurst, an old Arithmancy friend from Hogwarts, who Hermione quickly went off with to talk to. Ron went to get drinks for everybody and after that the night became a hectic blur.

The first one of them to get really drunk was Ron. The sign was when he started breaking out into the Chudley Cannons theme song when the clock struck twelve and they were all meant to be singing Jingle Bells. Harry knew _he_ was drunk when he joined in. 

Ginny was hit on by four guys, three of whom nearly wet themselves when she declared to them that Harry Potter was her boyfriend, and one of whom _did_ actually wet himself. Hermione was hit on by _five_ guys and one girl. Each time this happened, Hermione’s eyes would glow as she gently let them down. She was no longer the bushy haired, buck-toothed, unseen plain girl. She was a pretty young woman with intelligence colouring her eyes. And she was still pleasantly surprised when other people noticed.

Ron was impossible the whole night and insisted on doing everything loudly. Speaking singing, dancing, walking, drinking, singing, flirting, running, stripping and singing. Just to name a few. But Harry refused to try and stop him. They’d never had a real chance to unwind after the war.

Harry just kept drinking. And each time he did he forgot that much more. With each sip, went away a little bit of pain that had been there for so long now that Harry had forgotten that it wasn’t right. So Harry just kept on drinking that sweet release. It wasn’t long until Harry was so drunk he forgot that he was a horrible dancer and should never do it in public. He forgot that you never should never eat baked goods from strangers. He forgot that most girls don’t like the word “cunt” and that using it to describe someone isn’t very nice. He forgot that he should be offended when he’s called a “prick”, in retaliation. 

But he mainly forgot that he had a girlfriend. And that he was not gay. 

No, he most definitely was not thinking about how wrong anything he was doing was as he stood against the cold tile of the bathroom floor with his too tight black trousers bunched around his boots. He didn’t think about Ginny as Furio, the six foot pure, unadulterated, European perfection, took Harry’s cock into his mouth and sucked it so hard Harry lost his footing. He was not thinking about wars or Voldemort or Dumbledore or anything that caused him pain as he sat there, slumped against the wall with that Italian licking up all his come.

And when he pulled his pants back on and tripped down the stairs to find the other three waiting for him in the kitchen – Ron sporting a mysterious massive black eye – he didn’t think about obligation or responsibility. 

Oh no. It was not until twelve thirty nine on Christmas Day, when he finally woke up and his head felt like it was splitting in half, did he realise that he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

**(())**

Draco was fidgety. A sign of his nervousness. He really hoped that Potter didn’t bail on him. Draco’s feelings for Potter had changed from indifference into lukewarm acceptance, true, but if Potter didn’t show up Draco was more than willing to revert back to full blown hostility, let alone indifference.

Although Draco was pleased to be out of his cell again so soon after his last visitation. Waiting in the corridor of St. Mungo’s with a Dementor, the Azkaban warden and two correctional officers was not that much of an improvement. And the thought that kept crossing Draco’s mind was _what if they decide I’m too crazy to be let out in eighteen months? What if they lock me up forever?_

Some of Draco’s fears had been quailed though. Ebenezer Crick, his guard, had informed him that all he had to do was talk to this psychologist. Nothing else would happen. So at least Draco could stop thinking about electric-shock therapy – which he read about in his Muggle Studies textbook.

The door to the corridor was suddenly swung open and in walked Potter looking strangely ruffled. But Draco didn’t care what state he was in, as long as he was there. He smiled deeply at the stupid Gryffindork. Thankful that Potter had kept his word and come to the consultation, and mindful of the perfect brooch Potter had brought for him that was now sitting safely in his pocket.

Potter nodded his head in greeting. “So, are we doing this or what?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “In a hurry, Potter?”

Potter made no reply and Draco examined his companion more carefully. He looked run down, like he hadn’t had a decent sleep. And there was a strange vibe coming from him. Draco normally sensed calmness in Potter, but now there was something else. Something completely different. And then Draco knew what it was. His father had been emitting those vibes all last year. It was guilt.

Draco narrowed his eyes, suddenly very interested. “What did you do, Potter?”

Potter turned to him, his eyes wide. Draco smirked. He was right. “Don’t look so shocked. You’re rather transparent.”

Suddenly Potter’s face changed from shocked to questioning. “No. I’m not transparent at all. No one else has noticed …” Potter trailed off. Aware that he may be saying too much. 

Draco’s curiosity peaked even more and he happily pushed the consultation from his mind. “What did you do? Wait! Let me guess.” 

Potter’s countenance went sullen and his face clearly said, “you wouldn’t believe me if I told you”. Draco opened his mouth to say more, but he was cut off by the arrival of the psychologist. She was a petite woman with sandy blonde hair and lots of freckles. Draco frowned. He didn’t approve of freckles. 

The warden approached her and they had a short word which Draco did not hear. She briefly glanced at Potter, then at him, and then she stepped over to her office door, holding it open for him.

“Right then,” she said, smiling. She was Irish. Draco didn’t approve of that either. “My name is Erin McAvoy. Let’s get started, shall we?” 

Draco stood and Potter made to follow him, but Erin held up her hand. “No, no. It’s best if we’re alone.” 

Potter shrugged his shoulders and went to sit down where Draco had just been. Draco made to protest but was cut short when Erin firmly pushed him inside and the scent of vanilla was suddenly in the air.

“Hey!” said Draco. “I want Potter in here too.”

She laughed a little and closed the door. “No, you don’t want him in here. Come on, take a seat.” 

Draco crossed his arms as she gestured to a pair of couches by a window. The artificial sky outside was completely cloudless, and the sun sent rays of light dancing over her wooden desk and bookshelves. And even though it was fake, Draco contentedly moved towards the window. He hadn’t seen the sky like that in six months. And it was eerily calming. Draco felt his fears and anxiety wash away as he gazed out at the expansive blue.

“So,” he said. “How long am I allowed to stay here?”

**(())**

Harry sat in the corridor outside Erin McAvoy’s office for over an hour, dodging questions from the awe-struck and determined warden. His white moustache wiggled each time Harry offered him a satisfying answer. There weren’t many of those though, as Harry’s thoughts were rather crowded with full-blooded Italians, scarily insightful Slytherins and his own self-hatred.

Part of him wanted to tell Ginny everything. And another part of him knew that would be an incredibly stupid and pointless thing to do. He just had to come to terms with it, and try and move on. But each time he looked inside himself for an answer, he only found confusion.

Finally, when boredom was beginning to become a problem, Erin emerged from the office. Draco did not follow her and she closed the door behind her. 

“So,” said the warden, his double chin wobbling away. “Can I take him back? He’s not going to off himself?”

Erin looked at him with vague distaste. “No. Not immediately anyway. But there are a couple of rather serious problems that we are going to need to sort out.”

“Post-traumatic stress?” Harry offered. It was an obvious conclusion.

“Yes,” said Erin. “But that’s hardly surprising considering what he’s gone through over these last three years. Especially at such a young age. And unfortunately, being in Azkaban is not helping anything.”

Harry nodded his head. The warden was nonplussed.

“But I suspect there’s something else,” she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “It’s hard to tell at this stage.”

Harry shook his head. “What is it?”

“I believe that he may suffer from Histrionic Personality Disorder.”

Harry had never heard of such a thing, and apparently either had the warden. They wore mirrored faces of confusion.

Erin sighed, patiently. “In simple terms, it’s like narcissism except … well, worse. Histrionic personalities are highly manipulative. And they normally manipulate through sexual seduction.”

Harry stared at her blankly for a moment. And then said, “You think Draco has this?” He wondered vaguely if he’d ever been sexually manipulated by Draco.

“I think he _had_ it. The post-traumatic stress and his current situation have suppressed it. But that doesn’t mean when he gets out, that he won’t go back to it.”

Harry shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve known him for a long time-”

“You knew him when he was a child. But there was a while there when you didn’t see him a lot, huh? He told me.”

And Harry knew what she was implying. Harry had no idea what Draco had done for all those months, in order to stay alive.

**(())**

**Author’s Notes:** Thank you, **AbundantFear** , my darling beta who feeds me scones and tells me I’m wonderful. I’m very sorry that Cedric, your beloved Barina, has died. I am glad that your new car, Lancelot the Lanos, loves fifth gear so much.

Ahem.

\--- LOLLIPOPS ---

Enjoy! And don’t forget to push the button and send me some freakin’ love!


	4. Age of Reason

  
**THE VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCE**

**(())**

_“Honesty is a good thing, but it is not profitable to its possessor unless it is kept under control.” – Don Marquis_

Chapter Four: Age of Reason

**300 days after the Battle of Hogwarts**   


“So it’s completely turned off now?” Draco glanced over to the artificial sky outside the window. It did feel different now. More artificial and less soothing. Though the light still skimmed across the office walls, bouncing off the bookshelves. Draco liked this room.

“Yes,” Erin confirmed, a notepad in her lap and a self-writing quill hovering over it. “You don’t need the Calming Sky anymore. These last few months have been good. You’ve made very encouraging progress.”

“So I’m no longer suicidal or sexually manipulating?” Draco asked with sarcasm layering his voice.

Erin smiled patiently. “Your post-traumatic stress has dissipated to acceptable levels. And as for the Histrionic Personality Disorder … well, I think you need to accept the fact that it may always be a part of your life. But understand; it doesn’t define you.”

Draco had been seeing Erin McAvoy for just over five months now. He had forgiven her for being Irish and no longer gazed disapprovingly at her freckles. And although it had been hard to open up to her at first, Draco had found that it was good to talk to someone about his feelings. And soon, after his sessions with her, he began to notice a generally improved outlook on his life. But the idea that he would always have a personality disorder labeling him – like he didn’t have enough of those – was rather unnerving.

“Ninety-five percent of the population is neurotic, Draco,” Erin explained. “It’s just about learning to control our neuroticism, so that it doesn’t affect our ability to function in society. That is all we are aiming to do here. You needn’t feel like a freak,” Erin smirked at Draco. He had taken to calling himself “The Freak”, of late. 

“It is likely,” Erin said, as her quill dashed across the notepad, “that you will always be a slightly manipulative person. And be a little on the narcissistic side. And it is likely that you will use your sexuality where you can, to better your circumstances. But this does _not_ make you a bad person. It is no different than a shrewd person, using their intelligence and connections to further _themselves_. It is completely normal to be completely abnormal.” 

Erin had been saying similar things to him for some time now. But it still hadn’t quite sunk in yet. Draco still felt the need to be vindicated for his past actions somehow, without being labeled “histrionic”. 

“Last session,” Erin began, her brown eyes attentive, “we spoke a bit about the war. And you began to tell me something, but then you got uncomfortable and stopped. Do you remember this?”

Draco avoided her gaze. He’d been wondering if she was going to bring that up. “Vaguely,” Draco curtly replied. His countenance instantly changed and he became closed up, a cloudy look on his face.

“Would you like to talk about it now?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. 

Images flashed through Draco’s mind. Images of darkness and humiliation. Draco imagined telling her about it. But he couldn’t find the words to even describe it. And as the full memory of it came to the surface of his mind, so real that he could hear voices, he squeezed his eyes shut and pushed it away. He wasn’t ready for that yet. 

“No,” he muttered, his breathing becoming heavy. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Okay,” said Erin. She always accepted things. She never pushed him. “Okay then. Why don’t we talk about your parents? Last session you said you were having dreams about them.”

Draco sighed, relieved that the subject was changed. “I was. I am.”

“Do you want to tell me about the dreams?”

Draco told her about some of his dreams, not all of them. Never all of them. His father always said that no one should know everything about you. And Draco believed that. He didn’t trust Erin. He liked her, more than he would ever admit to any breathing person. And he respected her. But he didn’t trust that if someone offered her enough money or if someone high up in the Ministry asked her about him, that she wouldn’t spill her guts. Draco had always been like that though. He never trusted anyone. 

Draco was now almost halfway through his sentence. And whilst the last ten months had felt like the longest of his life, there was still a real sense of relief in the knowledge that the end was near. Because sometimes he felt so idle that the seconds went by at a snails pace and he was certain that he would be near death before he was finally released and got to drink Firewhiskey again.

There were other things that made prison life unbearable too. The hygiene was one. Although Draco showered once every twelve hours, he still never felt quite as clean as when he had used his own products. Draco was also only allowed to have his hair cut every six months. As his hair naturally grew extremely fast, this meant that Draco’s hair was constantly threatening to hit his shoulders, and just before it would, he’d be allowed to cut it. The only way to avoid the long hair was to have his head shaved. But Draco had decided that a Woodstock look was decidedly better than a Skinhead one, and had declined the barber’s offer.

“Happy nineteenth birthday for Sunday,” Erin said to Draco as they began to wrap the session up. “I won’t see you ‘til after, so I thought I should say something now.”

“Thanks,” said Draco, his voice neither pleased nor hateful, but rather just polite.

“You have a visitation then with Harry Potter, right?”

Draco cleared his throat. “Yes.”

“You told me in our first session, that you had hated each other for years. Do you still feel that way?”

“No,” replied Draco, not even having to think about it. His feelings for Potter were becoming increasingly and undoubtedly confusing – no doubt due to that lingering desire to distrust anything that he wasn’t. But whatever his feelings were, they weren’t ones of hate.

“Would you say that you and he are friends?”

This time Draco did think. Four months ago, even with everything that Potter had done for him, he would have said no. But the only people he saw more of than Potter, was Erin and Ebenezer. Potter came to all Draco’s visitations, he often escorted Draco to his “freak sessions” early in order to talk beforehand for an hour or so, and he had successfully charmed both Ebenezer and the Azkaban warden so that he could came and visit Draco off the book at times other than what was allotted. All up, in the last four months, Potter had visited Draco at least once a week. At first, Draco had got the impression that Potter was just trying to avoid certain people in his life, but now Draco wasn’t so sure. 

Draco never really fought with Potter anymore, though they occasionally had arguments when they were playing card games or chess and Draco would cheat when he saw he was losing. But most of the time, they had each other in hysterics. Or rather, Draco had Potter in hysterics with all his impersonations, and his perspectives on many of the events involving Potter in the first five years of Hogwarts; which were apparently highly inaccurate. But it made Potter laugh, so Draco would make each incident as ridiculous as possible. And as Draco thought about that – that fact that he wanted to make Potter laugh, he realised that he _did_ like him.

“Yes,” Draco answered, a little bewilderment in his voice. “Yes, we are friends.”

Erin smiled deeply at him. “Good. I’m glad. You deserve to have good friends.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Do I?”

Erin got that look on her face that Draco was very familiar with, it meant a new topic for interrogation. Draco looked up at the round clock on her back wall above her desk and gestured to it with a nod.

“Oh, well,” he said. “Time’s up. Best be going. Got an incarceration to get to.”

She giggled at him as he stood to leave. He took a deep breath, knowing there was a Dementor waiting for him on the other side of the door.

“Draco?” Erin called to him as he went to turn the door handle. He turned around to face her. “You do deserve it,” she said a little breathlessly. “You deserve his friendship.”

For the first time since he’d been seeing her, he smiled at her. Not sneered or smirked. But smiled. And he could see her melting under it and then he had her and he knew it. It hadn’t happened because he’d forced her into it, or because he’d tricked her into it. He had done just being him. It was the most satisfied he’d felt since the day he’d won – not brought – his way onto the Slytherin Quidditch team.

**(())**

Steady, even little breaths in the corner let Harry know that Teddy was asleep. Finally. Because that kid had a set of pipes on him that made Harry think that maybe Teddy did have some werewolf in him after all. It certainly didn’t make crash-studying very easy. All of Hermione’s stupid notes didn’t make it very easy either. Harry briefly glanced at a bit of parchment that was covered in Hermione’s teeny writing. It was, according to the heading, a rough layout of the properties of the Philosopher’s Stone.

Hermione, in cahoots with Professor McGonagall, was writing a non-fiction book called _Harry Potter and the Rise and Fall of Lord Voldemort_. Harry thought the title could use a little work, but Hermione had told him, through a defensive facial expression, that the title _had_ been worked on as it had previously been _The Boy Who Lived’s Grand Defeat of He Who Must Not Be Named, with the Assistance of Albus Dumbledore and Many Other People That Sacrificed Themselves for The Boy Who Lived’s Victory_.

Harry didn’t really like the idea of there being a book. But if Hermione didn’t do it, Rita Skeeter was going to. She’d been trying to get a court order passed to get the rights. Harry knew whose version he’d prefer, so he was letting it go.

He sighed and pulled out one of his Auror Training textbooks, _Aurors in the Wilderness: Because It WILL Happen_ by Barnaby French. Harry wasn’t quite sure why he was bothering to study so much. Kingsley Shacklebolt had told both him and Ron, in no uncertain terms, that as long as they passed their practical Auror exams, they would go straight into the Ministry. Just _completing_ the theory Auror exams and the appropriate N. E. W. Ts was apparently acceptable for both of them. Ron had taken this to heart and hadn’t opened a book for two months. They would both be able to pass the practical work. Harry was the best, and Ron was one of the best, in the class. But Harry felt this great urge to do really well, on his theory as well as his practical. It was like he could feel everyone’s eyes on him, expecting him to do well because he’s The Chosen One. Harry did not crave fame or attention, but he’d like avoid public criticisms if he could.

He poured over the book, taking notes and then rewriting them, trying to lock all the information into his brain. As he was just finishing up, and ready to move on to _Camouflage like You Mean It_ by Butterfly Beechester, his eagle owl came swooping into the study through the open window. The weather had been sweet and warm, so Harry had left it open all day. Now, at a little after lunch, the sun was showing off in full bloom.

Mercury dropped a letter from his beak and soundlessly moved to the owl ledge where only Pig was, taking a rare and joyous nap. Mercury lapped up some water from his tray as Harry looked down at the letter. He knew who it was from. Ginny always replied quickly, even if he did not. 

He opened the letter and read:

_Dear Harry,_

_Oh my God! Fleur’s pregnant? Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner? I just sent Bill a massive letter, including a list of boy and girl names that Luna and I came up with in Charms. Although, I don’t know how much good Luna’s are going to be to them, if you get what I mean._

_Okay, so I’m in Potions right now and Slughorn is being totally oppressive. I’m not paying attention because we’re just making Sleeping Draughts. He thinks they’re going to be on the exams, to you know, throw us off ‘cause no one would have prepared for such an easy potion._

_Whatever Horace. I’ll fake a cramp when I finish this letter so I can go to the Owlery._

_Quidditch is brilliant – thanks for asking – because we are brilliant and won the cup! As you knew we would! And guess what? There was a scout there! And she was totally freaky but she asked me if I’d be interested in considering playing for the Holyhead Harpies! I nearly had a coronary. That would just be the best thing, hey? I would still have time to go to Camelot and do Journalism. But don’t tell mum. You know how she feels about jobs that don’t involve desks._

_Later to- damn it. Bloody Slughorn. I have to go now. I think he might’ve just Legilimens’d me? The bastard. But I love you so much and I miss you like you wouldn’t believe and I cannot wait to see you and show you just how much I miss you but I have to go! Argh! ALRIGHT HORACE. I KNOW. I HAVE BEEN MAKING SLEEPING DRAUGHTS FOR SEVERAL YEARS NOW YOU OVERGROWN TESTICLE._

_Love your sweet-tempered, loving and angelic girlfriend,  
Ginny_

Harry smiled as he thought of Ginny. She really was great. And it was moments like this when what he had done to her came flooding back into his consciousness, and he felt completely awful. 

Harry hadn’t been able to look Furio in the eye ever since that Christmas Eve party and part of Harry had even hoped that Furio had been too drunk to remember. But when Harry looked back on that night, he couldn’t remember seeing Furio drinking at any stage. All the same, Furio had made no acknowledgement of what had happened, and from what Harry could tell, he hadn’t told anyone else. None of it really made sense to Harry, but he didn’t really want to think about it too much. Especially as he had made the decision to tell Ginny when she got back from school. He would be thinking about it plenty then. He just couldn’t take lying to her anymore.

Harry was pulled from his reverie as Teddy began to stir. Teddy called out for Harry in a very sleepy, sulky voice. Except Teddy wasn’t even two yet so it sounded like, “Hawie”, more than “Harry”. But Harry was still immensely chuffed, that his name was in this little boy’s vocabulary. Harry wished he was able to baby-sit him more.

Harry scooped the currently green-haired boy up, and prepared to go out. He had to pick up the first part of Draco’s birthday present from Diagon Alley, and he’d promised George he would take Teddy into see him at the joke shop. 

If Harry, ever for a moment, forgot about the war, all he had to do was look at George. It was strewn across his face like a horrible painting. Harry had lost so many people, but he still had his closest confidants. The three people that mattered most to him in the world. And he was thankful for that everyday. But George … he had lost half of himself. How do you put yourself back together, when some of the puzzle pieces are missing?

Still, George took it each day at a time. And none of the Weasley’s ever left him on his own. One of them was always in the shop with George. That day it was Charlie. They played with Teddy in the shop and customer after customer cooed after him, telling him how clever he was for changing his hair colour and the shape of his nose all the time. And when George joked that Teddy was the best salesmen he ever had, it was almost as if Fred was still there, and not buried in the grounds of Hogwarts. Almost.

**(())**

The next day, Harry began his Auror examinations. The first of which was brewing a Sleeping Draught from limited, on hand ingredients. Harry instantly thought of Ginny and her tirade on Slughorn, and for a moment he was comforted. But then he thought of Furio being only three tables down from him and he completely lost concentration. His potion wasn’t completely ruined, though it was likely to only put already tired people to sleep.

Harry went into a self-loathing, mental rant wondering what the hell was wrong with him and why he ever let a stranger do that to him. In a public place. With his girlfriend – his perfect, sweet, beautiful girlfriend only metres away. 

Even when Ron showed up with a massive grin on his face, and showed Harry three brand new Chocolate Frog Cards, with his, Ron’s and Hermione’s face on them, Harry remained unmoved. 

Ron continued to brandish them under his nose, exclaiming over how pretty Hermione looked and that it really was quite a good photo of them to, though he was sure he never waved at anyone so stupidly.

Harry turned and snapped at Ron, “I don’t fucking care about any Chocolate Frog Cards!” 

And when Ron looked at him, hurt covering his features, Harry broke a little and his face crumpled as he tried really hard not to cry. “I’m sorry, Ron,” he squeezed out. 

Ron’s face changed to understanding. “It’s okay, we all have our moments.”

Harry nodded his head and looked away. He watched the Transfigurations Teachers to-be on the lawn opposite the Auror Building. They were turning trees into seeds and back again. The sounds of their spellcasting were drowning out the screaming of Harry’s heart, but not the dull ache.

**(())**

Harry waited in the hall of Azkaban, outside the visitation room. The warden stood at the end of the hall, turning all Dementors and correctional officers away. Harry was feeling slightly giddy. Such a rare emotion in him of late. He welcomed its presence.

He had been in a dark mood since his snipe at Ron, and had been unable to get out of it. But when he woke up today and remembered what he was doing, he suddenly felt better. He thought the feeling might have been redemption. 

Eventually, Harry heard the sound of footsteps and light conversation, and then Draco and Ebenezer came into view. Draco smiled at Harry in that honest and open way that he had been doing lately. Harry found it annoying because it was contagious and he could not help but smile like that back. Though on this day, Harry smiled back even brighter than Draco had.

“Got me a good present I hope,” Draco said. “Otherwise I think I’ll reconsider these little meetings.”

Harry laughed. “It’s in the room on the table,” said Harry nodding his head toward the visitation room. “But seriously for a sec, I kind of organised something else for you too. It was a right pain and I don’t think I’ll be able to make it happen again but-”

“Christ Potter,” Draco exclaimed, looking excited. “What did you get me? Rent boys?”

Harry laughed again and so did Ebenezer, standing off to the side a little. And then suddenly Harry stopped. “Wait. Don’t you mean rent _girls_?”

“You got me hookers?!”

“What? No! Shit, Malfoy,” said Harry, moving toward the door. “Just look, will you.” Harry swung the door open and Draco walked towards it, his face full of humour. When he looked inside, it was immediately stripped. 

Standing inside, wrapped in a tight embrace was Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. They were completely ragged looking. The signs of the constant presence of Dementors in their lives were well and truly present. They were gripping each other with severe force, like they hoped that they could permanently imprint each other’s forms on to themselves. Then finally, after what felt like a lifetime, they spotted their son, watching them with a face of so many different emotions trying to break through, that it looked blank. 

“Mummy?” Draco said, in the softest, most heartbreaking voice Harry had ever heard him use.

Narcissa open her arms wide and let out devastating cry as she jostled towards her son who met her halfway. They clenched each other tight and Lucius, weeping, moved forward and wrapped them both up. 

Harry felt like a horrible intruder as he watched this sight. He tore his eyes away and closed the door as quietly as he could. He stepped away and stood by Ebenezer who sported a knowing smile. 

Harry felt a little foolish. He wasn’t completely sure what he had been expecting the Malfoys’ reactions to be to their reunion, but that hadn’t been it. But as he thought about it, he realised that it could have been no other way. Narcissa and Lucius have been food for Dementors for ten months, with human contact being limited to their guard. And Draco, Draco was just a kid, under it all. Even though he was now nineteen. Of course it would be like this.

Harry suddenly wondered if he had done the right thing. He had just wanted to help Draco. Make him feel better. Harry could only imagine the torture of knowing that your family was so close to you, yet completely unattainable.

Harry had always lamented not knowing his parents, but sometimes he felt grateful that they had died before he could remember them. Sometimes, he thought it could have been worse, if he had known what he would have been missing. If he had completely understood what had been taken away from him.

Harry was lost in his thoughts for some time before the warden whistled from his post, and then began walking towards them with two Dementors in tow. It had been twenty minutes. That was the most time that they could possibly give them. Lucius and Narcissa were not meant to leave their cells, after all. They had to be taken back.

Harry took a deep breath and headed for the door. He knocked briefly before carefully opening it. 

They were all sitting atop the table. Draco was in the middle, being held from either side by his parents. All their pale faces were streaked with tears. Lucius’s and Draco’s grey eyes were shining and Narcissa’s blue ones were red. They were not talking.

“I-” Harry gulped. Lucius turned his head to him, but the others remained the same. “I’m sorry.” Harry looked pleadingly at Lucius. “You have to go back now. I’m sorry.”

Narcissa let out a sob and pulled Draco to her even tighter. But Lucius looked past Harry to the warden and Dementors. Ever the dignified one, he slowly pulled himself away, knowing there was no use in fighting. He kissed his son on the forehead, and then peeled Narcissa off him. “Come Cissy,” he said softly, calmly. 

Harry was relieved when she obeyed. Narcissa feasted on the sight of her son as she was led away from him. She was so full of pain, she could not speak. Lucius did though. “We love you, Draco.”

Then they were gone. Draco stood, looking out the door where the warden and the Dementors had led his mother and father away. He was mute and still. Harry felt like crying, it was all so wretched. 

Harry didn’t think that he could convince the warden to this again. Had he just flaunted what Draco was never going to have, in his face? He could not speak for shame. Then Harry noticed that Draco had Harry’s birthday gift in his lap. It gave him the courage to speak. “I’m so, so sorry Draco …” he said quietly. Feeling rude for speaking in a place where such a thing had just transpired.

Draco turned to Harry. Then he stood and Harry pictured Draco smacking him over the head with his gift. But Draco’s expression wasn’t aggressive, nor was it one Harry actually recognised. Draco moved forward to Harry and Harry flinched, anticipating the thumping he was about to receive. But Draco did not hit him. Instead, he bunched the front of Harry’s robes into a fist with his spare hand, lent forward and pressed his lips against Harry’s in a chaste kiss.

Harry froze in shock. In that fleeting moment Harry could feel the softness of Draco’s lips, the wetness of his cheeks, the flutter of his eyelashes, and something began to almost … bloom inside Harry, before Draco had moved away and followed Ebenezer back to his cell. 

Harry ran his fingers over his lips, his head full of strange thoughts of Draco Malfoy.

**(())**

**Author’s Notes:** Thank you **AbundantFear** , my beta. Especially for all the Psychobabble.

\--- AN APPLE FOR PENNY ---

Hope you enjoyed this latest chapter. More coming soon!


	5. Of Macbeth & Muggleborns

**THE VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCE**

**(())**

Author’s Note: Please don’t send rabid bunnies after me. I am very sorry this chapter is so very late. I was studying overseas and whatever it’s a long story let’s just get on with it, eh?

  
**(())**

_“Whatever you do, stamp out abuses, and love those who love you.” – Voltaire_

Chapter Five: Of Macbeth & Muggleborns

**305 days after the Battle of Hogwarts**   


It was several hours until Draco was finally out of tears. But he felt better for it. Like he’d cried out all his fears. Seeing his parents had been wonderful, but at the same time it had been scary. They were both so changed. Not just in the way they looked either. Of course they would be thinner and a little aged through all the stress, but that was not what scared Draco so much. It was this _feeling_ that radiated from them. A sort of desperation. And a terrible sadness that their frail bodies couldn’t contain.

So Draco was, at this stage, still undecided as to whether it was a good thing or not, seeing his parents. Though he imagined later on when he began to miss them even more fiercely, he would be grateful for the short reunion. He did feel relief. He did feel a slight lifting-of-burden. Like his worries about whether or not they were dead inside their cells and no one had noticed, or whether there was a guard doing to them what one did to him; all of that worry was alleviated. 

Draco took a deep breath and lay back on his bed. The birthday present Potter got for him sat innocently on his chest. Draco now turned his attention to it. It was wrapped in blue tissue paper and Draco thought, from the weight of it and its hard shell, that it was probably a book. He gently pulled at the spello-tape and a hard covered, gold leafed book fell out. Stenciled into the cover was one, evocative word: _Macbeth_. Draco had never heard of it. Still, he decided to give it a go. After all, Potter had got him that brooch. His taste couldn’t be all that bad.

He was flicking through the pages with his eyes closed, enjoying the new-book scent, when suddenly he dropped the book back on his chest with a thud, and sat up quickly to attention. 

_Oh my God._

A lump of cold dread dropped in his stomach.

_I kissed Harry Potter._

**(())**

_Harry,_

_Sorry it took me so long to write back, but I’ve been a bit busy with end of school crap. My mates and me went to Amsterdam for a few weeks. It was fucken brilliant. The girls there are fit like you wouldn’t believe. And I’ve just started working for Sparky. It sucks but it was that or working for Dad and I don’t like those office types._

_Anyway, we got your letter fine. Dad ignored it. Sorry about that. Mum read it but she said she wasn’t going to write back. Sorry about that too. But they’re both fine. They don’t talk about that time away from home. You know, when your lot was all fighting. The other wizards talked about you a lot when we were there. They said something about you being missing for a while, but they didn’t really seem worried about it. They talked about your school a lot and said that some of the kids were being hurt. I hope none of your friends were, you know, killed or something._

_Well, I better get going. Mum’s got tea up. It’ll probably be a couple of days until I can be fucked to post this, but if you’re ever in the area or whatever, let me know and we can grab a drink at Bridie’s or something._

_Dudley_

Harry put the letter down. His Auror exams were over and he was waiting on the results now, so he’d turned his attention to his N.E.W.T’s – Charms in particular – when Mercury, his eagle owl, came swooping through the open window with his cousin’s letter. Mercury must have taken it upon himself to go to the post office. The intuition of owls and their function always surprised Harry.

Harry had no problems admitting to himself that he was astonished his cousin had written him back. Sure, he and Dudley had had a moment before Harry had left Privet Drive last year, if that’s what the awkward fumbling of thanks could be called. But he thought Dudley’s feelings towards Harry were merely less violent than that of his parents. Not altogether _without_ violence.

He folded the letter up and put it into his desk draw, making a mental note to maybe follow Dudley up on his offer for a drink sometime in the future. He let out a sigh and turned back to his work. He had immersed himself in his studies this day, in hopes of driving certain images of young, blonde men, out of his mind. For the second time in a short while, Harry was feeling like he’d betrayed Ginny. He knew that in this instance, he hadn’t really betrayed her, unlike with Furio. Draco had kissed _him_ after all. And it had been fleeting. Just simple thanks. But that fleeting kiss had sparked more feeling in Harry than the seven minutes he’d spent in the bathroom with Furio. Thus, the feelings of guilt he was currently experiencing.

Prior to The Draco Incident, as he was calling it, Harry had been resolved to tell Ginny the truth about Furio. But now he didn’t know if he should. How could he speak to Ginny about _her_ feelings about another man getting him off at a Christmas party, when he wasn’t sure how _he_ felt about it? He’d thought it was an accident. Not like he’d slipped on spilt milk and his dick had landed in Furio’s mouth – he wasn’t that pathetic. But he’d rather thought it had been a drunken mistake he had no intention of ever repeating. And then … The Draco Incident. Was he gay? He didn’t feel gay. He was attracted to girls. He’d been mad over Cho Chang and he loved sex with Ginny more than anything in the world. It all made no sense. He really wanted to talk to Hermione or Ron about it, to get advice. But what exactly would he say to them? Ginny was Ron’s sister and Hermione’s best friend. There was no room for objectivity. 

Harry heard a faint knock on the door which broke him out of his reverie and then Hermione entered in her pajamas. He steeled his features as she held out a coffee to him at his desk. 

Harry was constantly being surprised by how attractive Hermione had become, and continued to become. He had never thought her ugly, but he had never seen her as pretty or beautiful, and certainly not sexy. But in the last year, he had seen her as all at one time or another. And judging by the sounds that came from Ron’s room most nights, he wasn’t the only one. 

“You’re up early,” she smiled at him and sat on the settee opposite him, curling her legs under her. “And studying, no less.”

He took a mouthful of the coffee; it was a little sweet for his taste. Harry adored Hermione but she had a habit of making things for other people – particularly food – the way she liked it and was always surprised when they didn’t share her opinion. He wasn’t up for the discussion though, about differing opinions and everyone’s counting and so kept drinking. 

“I’m glad I got you alone, actually,” said Hermione, looking pensively down at her own coffee. “I want your advice about something.”

Harry looked up, thankful for the distraction but also curious. Hermione rarely asked the opinions of others, unless they had ‘Professor’ in their title. 

“Of course.”

“I’d speak to Ron or Ginny about it, but neither of them could ever really understand where I’m coming from, being that they’re Purebloods. Plus,” she added with a little smile. “They’re both a tad immature.”

She sat up a little and pulled out some parchment from the back pocket of her pajama bottoms. She stood up and placed it on Harry’s desk. His curiosity was peaked and he picked it up and opened it. It was a letter.

_Dear Miss Hermione Granger,_

_We would like to congratulate you on your promotion last month, to_ Team Leader of the Dangerous Animals Welfare Division _in the_ Department for the Control of Dangerous Creatures, Ministry of Magic. _We have been observing your work for some time and have unanimously agreed that you would be perfect for our society. Your hard work for the welfare of all magical peoples, your academic achievements and you heroine status all make you a perfect candidate._

_We are the_ Muggleborn Magic United Society! _I know what you’re thinking: At last! At last, indeed. We are all about the integration of Muggleborns into the magical community! We provide a place of refuge and guidance for Muggleborns. Right now, we are working directly with the Muggleborn community, but our eventual goal is to have our own department in the Ministry of Magic! Muggleborns make up 27% of the wizarding population (12% Purebloods, 61% Mixedblood/Halfblood) so it’s about time our voices were heard._

_We’d love you to join our society in making a better and safer community for Muggleborns. Our motto is “Never Again!”, because never again will we allow the ostracism and genocide of Muggleborns to occur, and we think your involvement could aid us in seeing our goals reached. Please join us for our fortnightly meeting at Tudor Hall in London, next Saturday evening (snacks and refreshments from six, meeting begins at seven, coffee and tea at ten)._

_Looking forward to meeting you in person!_

_Bettie-Mae Gent_  
Founder and President  
Muggleborn Magic United Society 

Harry put down the parchment and took a deep breath. “Intense,” was all he could think to say. “Are you going to go?”

She looked out the window at the trees brushing against the glass. Mercury rustled his feathers in the corner. Ron and Hermione’s owls were out. “I’m torn. I want to go because I think it’s a good idea. But I’ve been hearing things around the Ministry.”

“What kinds of things?”

“ _All_ kinds of things. That they’re zealots is basically the gist. But when I asked Justin Finch-Fletchley in the mailroom about it, he said it was great. That they have fun melding their two worlds together, muggle and wizard, and that they’re just trying to make sure another Voldemort isn’t allowed to rise.”

Harry sensed there was more. “But …”

“But … well, _you_ know. The road to hell is paved with good intentions and all that. What if we become the new bullies and Purebloods become the new ostracized minority?” 

“Wouldn’t that be awful,” Harry said sarcastically. “But seriously, I think you’re jumping the gun a bit. I mean, they hardly sound like terrorists.”

Hermione looked thoughtfully at him. “I just don’t know if I want to be a part of any organization that only allows certain people to join.”

Harry considered his response. “Assuming they are becoming zealots, maybe your logical presence is just what they need. If you think the ideal is correct, but you’re worried about the execution, maybe you should be around. To keep things calm and on task.”

“Perhaps.” She put her coffee down and begun to wring her hands together, a nervous habit of hers. “I think I’ll go at least to this first meeting. Just to see what things are like.”

Harry nodded his head. “Fair enough.”

She meet his eyes and held them for a moment, her hands still wringing. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Of course.”

“Will you promise not to get angry?”

Harry hesitated and realised that she hadn’t really wanted his advice about that letter, she’d had every intention of going to that first meeting. There was something else she wanted to talk about. “I s’pose,” he cautiously replied.

“Be honest.”

Harry frowned. “Am I ever not?”

She wrung her hands again and Harry began to worry. Had she found something out about Draco? Had she found out he’d still been seeing him? Had Ebenezer Crick seen Draco kiss Harry and then spread it around Azkaban which resulted in it being spread around the Ministry? If so, Ebenezer was a dead man.

“I don’t know how to put it. I think its rubbish, really. But I have to know…”

Harry steeled his face again and said nothing, willing his face not to give him away. It seemed to fool everyone else, but Draco had told Harry that his face was transparent. 

Hermione took a deep breath. “Alright. I’m just going to say it. Alright. Here we go. Didfuriotheitaltiongiveyouoralsexatthatdormpartylastchristmas?”

Harry shook his head, confused. “What?”

Hermione gave a nervous laugh. “Okay,” she took a deep breath. “What I meant was; did Furio the Italian give you oral sex at that dorm party last Christmas?”

Harry’s face unsteeled in shock. He could only imagine how big his eyes must have gone, or the red that must have just started colouring his cheeks. 

“Oh my, God!” Hermione gasped and threw her hands over her mouth.

Harry clenched his fists and looked down. “How did you find out?”

“Soumaya, the South African girl in your class,” said Hermione breathlessly. “She saw Furio drag you into the bathroom and … and … pull down your … trousers and … and, and start … you know! She closed the door when she saw and didn’t say anything for ages.”

Harry was horrified. “So she’s started telling people now?”

“No,” said Hermione, her eyes looking past Harry, completely shocked. “She’s nice. But I ran into her at the Ministry the other day and she told me because she liked Ginny and didn’t think it was fair if you were gay.” Hermione swallowed. “But if you were just “blotto” and didn’t know what you were doing, she didn’t want to ruin your life by announcing it to everyone. She thought I’d be able to help. I thought she was full of it. I thought she was mistaken.”

Harry nodded his head and they both sat just sat there, not looking at each other. So someone new about him and Furio all along. And now Hermione knew. Harry couldn’t believe he’d ever considered telling Ginny about it. He was completely mortified. He’d rather face Voldemort again than be stuck in this study with Hermione, unable to look him in the eye. And then a few minutes passed and Harry’s heartbeat slowed down and he was able to form a rational thought. And then he was able to form a calculated response.

“I’m not gay. I was just really drunk. I was going to tell Ginny about it, but then decided not to because it was one mistake and I love her and I don’t want to tell her just to ease my own burden or something.”

Hermione took another deep breath and nodded her head. “You’re right not to tell Ginny then. But Harry, if I were you, I would never drink again.”

Harry nodded his head. He was about to say something else when they heard the unmistakable footsteps of Ron coming down the stairs. He was a stomper.

“Don’t say anything to Ron. This conversation never happened, okay? The thing with Furio never happened,” Harry looked intently at Hermione. She nodded her head in agreement and Harry breathed a sigh of relief and pushed all thoughts of Furio out of his head. The Draco Incident would not be so easily squashed though and Harry didn’t want to know what Hermione would do or say if she found out about that. Or worse, if she found out what went through Harry’s mind anytime _he_ thought of it.

**(())**

When Harry visited Draco later that month, he had successfully convinced himself that there had in fact been no Incident, and that he was being a complete nob. Draco had given him a thank you kiss for reuniting him with his parents, it was inoffensive and completely heterosexual and this is the twentieth century, men can kiss. Right?

When Draco came into the meeting room, Harry had a newspaper in his hands. He held it up to cover his face and said nothing as he heard Draco sit down opposite him and heard Ebenezer close and then lock the door. He was ready with his first statement for the afternoon, when Draco interrupted him.

“That book was fucking excellent. Well. That _play_ was fucking excellent.”

Harry took a deep breath and dropped the paper. “I know. Shakespeare knew his stuff.”

Draco looked healthier than ever. His frequent visits to Erin McAvoy, psychologist to the criminally insane wizard or witch, and his friendships with Harry and, Harry suspected, Ebenezer, was doing him the world of good. It did nothing to quell Harry’s confusing thoughts though.

“Yes, he did,” Draco added animatedly. “And I read about all his other plays at the back. This one play called _Hamlet_ sounded hilarious too.”

“Wait. What?” Harry laughed. “You thought _Macbeth_ was funny?”

“Didn’t you? I mean, the way Macbeth confused those hags for witches. And then when Lady Macbeth was ranting about being unsexed.” Draco began to laugh. “But the best bit was when those men carried shrubs and small trees in front of them to pretend to be part of the forest. And Macbeth’s conclusion, upon this sight, was that the forest was moving. I mean, naturally.”

Harry couldn’t help laughing with Draco. 

“Can you just imagine?” Draco continued. “These grown men sticking bits of tree and bark to themselves and being all, ‘Aha! Now we’ll fool him for sure! He will most certainly mistaken me for a cherry blossom’ … what pillocks.”

“I suppose it is kind of funny.”

Harry and Draco continued talking about _Macbeth_ and Shakespeare. Draco wanted to know what his other stories were like, but Harry had only read _Macbeth_ and _Twelfth Night_. They then talked a bit about Draco’s psychologist sessions, until Draco became evasive and then changed the subject to what grades Harry was expecting from his Auror exams and his NEWTs, which he’d just finished, until _Harry_ became evasive. They talked about everything and nothing and the whole time there was a massive, metaphoric elephant in the room, stamping its feet at them, demanding attention and not getting it. 

Harry proudly remained resilient.

**(())**

Early Saturday evening, Hermione put on her most professional outfit, pulled her brown hair into neat twist, applied a little unobvious make-up, got her Mirror’s opinion (“Exquisite!”), ran into Ron coming back from a Canons game, had sex in the drawing room against the sofa, showered, changed into her second most professional outfit, straightened her hair, quickly threw on some foundation and mascara, got her Mirror’s opinion (“Nice and neat!”), ran into Ron coming out of the shower, had sex on the bathroom floor, looked at her alarm clock, swore at Ron for two minutes, had sex on the bed, showered, changed into her only remaining professional outfit, threw her hair into a ponytail as she asked her mirror’s opinion (“Like you’ve been shagging all day, you ninny!”), powdered her nose as she ran down the stairs, and finally arrived at Tudor Hall an hour and a half late.

Tudor Hall was in the heart of busy London and was clearly not of wizarding design. It was a large, and stately, nineteenth century design, two floored hall with four function rooms and all rooms were occupied on that night. She ran past the receptionist when she rushed in, asking which room the _United Society_ was in, as she’d seen them called on the board outside. The other functions were two weddings and an engagement party. The man laughed at her disheveled appearance and directed her to function room three. She ran up the stairs, her favourite pumps squishing her feet and finally burst into the room. 

There were around one hundred people in the room and every one of them turned to look at her. The room was set up a lot like the Hogwarts Great Hall was, except there were only two tables in the middle, and a small elevated table at the back of the room where a woman was now giving a speech, which Hermione had just unceremoniously interrupted.

She blushed furiously. 

“Well now,” said the middle-aged woman at the microphone, wearing a plain grey skirt-suit and beaming at Hermione. “You must be Miss Granger. We are absolutely _ecstatic_ that you could make it. Justin,” she said, looking down at the brown head of Justin Finch-Fletchley, “mark her off, please.” Justin smiled at her and pulled out a purple texter. 

Hermione nodded her head and blushed even worse; she ducked her head and quickly sat herself down in the closest seat available.

“To continue,” the woman said. “We need to get as many Muggleborns to sign this petition as possible. And we need every Muggleborn in the British wizarding world in this society. That is why you have all been our first selected members. You are leaders in our community, and with your support, our dreams can be realised.”

Hermione slowly began to catch her breath and took a look around her. The woman addressing the audience was undoubtedly Bettie-Mae Gent, and the other twenty or so people behind her, including Justin, must have been the first and founding members of the society. They all looked normal enough, but for one young woman who had her eyes closed and her hands were gripping the sides of her chair, her facial expression was oddly tense. No one else seemed to be paying her any attention.

“What we have seen, and what we have experienced as Muggleborns in this world, no one else can ever understand. The persecution and struggles we face every day is like that of no other. We deserve to have our voice heard. And together, we are going to make it happen.”

There was a general round of applause and Hermione lackadaisically joined in, only half listening. The young woman appeared to be of Asian descent, perhaps Chinese. She was pretty, with long black hair and smooth skin. Her eyes sported heavy eyeliner and she was dressed in black. 

Hermione looked around her again but no one seemed to notice the tense girl. She looked vaguely familiar to Hermione, but she didn’t know why. She looked away and turned her attention to Bettie-Mae, who appeared to be wrapping up her speech to more applause. Hermione again joined in. She inadvertently turned her head to where the tense girl had been sitting, but the girl wasn’t there anymore. Hermione saw a door in the back left hand corner closing and realised the girl must have ducked out. 

“Now, now,” said Bette-Mae. “No need for all that. Thank you though, thank you. Well, I think it’s time that we start getting into groups and get brainstorming, yes?”

Hermione spent the next two hours being shuffled around into various groups, meeting and greeting different people. They discussed their worst experiences in school and then brainstormed the ways that these problems could be combated, they then discussed their experiences with blood purists and the ministry and again, brainstormed solutions. It all seemed “by-the-book” and harmless to Hermione. They invited her to their next function which was apparently going to be more fun and she told herself that she only agreed to go because she could not think of an excuse quick enough, but really she’d spent the whole peeking over shoulders and looking around exits for the tense girl, but she never reappeared. Hermione’s curiosity got the better of her and she was determined to track her down. 

Hermione went home that night, ate a scone that Kreacher had left out for her, drank a glass of milk, woke Ron up when she slipped into bed, turned him down for sex, fell asleep and then dreamt of the Department of Mysteries. 

The tense girl stood at the entrance to the Department, her eyes closed and her hand held out.

**(())**

**Author’s Notes:** Thank you **AbundantFear** , my beta still after all these years and all these degrees. 


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